Me, My Mother, and I

Therapy this past Wednesday was intense work. Quite a lot of time was spent in a postmortem of the disastrous date with Cal. (As you may recall my last therapy session was to get ready for my date with Cal). See Cal, we're still trying to figure out what went wrong, and how to make it right.

It seems there are times I channel my mother and not in her finest moments. But she was fierce and honest about her feelings. She was opinionated and forceful, always direct to a fault. And she was mischievous in a mean and teasing way I always hated. The flip side of not liking that is the wit in her barbs. She was quick and sometimes glib. And though I saw her as my tormenter when I was young, she was also my mother whom I adored.

Everything that I have said about her that you would think of as clearly cruel and careless has a flip side. She said she wanted to make me tough. She has succeeded. I'm not only tough, I'm strong and, so I'm told, intimidating, scary. I have her voice, her vocabulary, her taste in clothes, esthetic, intelligence and hunger for knowledge.

She was the very picture of Ms. Robinson--older woman seduces younger man. She had an almost inextinguishable sex appeal even into her 70s. And she was a political operative and leading edge feminist organizer in the 1960's in Salt Lake City, an inhospitable environment for the women's movement. She organized and led pickets of the Mormon temple on the weekend of General Conference which is when the temple grounds are packed with the faithful who have come from across the country and from other countries. It's like a biannual trip to Mecca. I have never been so scared protesting for anything anywhere in my travels, as I was marching with my mother to protest the Mormon Church's apposition to ratification by the State of Utah of the Equal Right's Amendment to the Constitution of the United States. We were threatened with death by young mormon men and we were spat upon. Never have I felt so vulnerable to violence. We had a permit, we were outside the Church's property on a public sidewalk, but I felt scared. That was when I first realized my mother's power and strength as a woman with a cause.

My mother organized the Utah Chapter of National Organization of Women, the Utah National Women's Conference. Gloria Steinem slept in the bed I inherited. So did Betty Freidan, and Andrea Dworkin. Every famous feminist who came to speak at the University of Utah was picked up at the airport by my mother, driven to this house, partied at this place. My mother was a woman with a rich and interesting life. She sat on the Board of Directors of the Utah Chapter of the ACLU and board meetings were held in this living room. Our last Mayor was Rocky Anderson and I knew him during his days as an ACLU attorney.

When Maggy lived in Santa Barbara she served two terms as a member of the Santa Barbara Grand Jury. Right up until the end of her life she was still flipping people off and saying "Fuck You." Fierce spirit. A savage woman, unwilling to live a life without breaking all the rules.

And what does all of this have to do with therapy? I will now acknowledge the gifts my mother gave me. They are undeniable and not all bad. But I would rather be gentler than my mother, more sensitive to other peoples feelings, especially if they are kind, well meaning, generous people. I have seen my mother hurt someone else very deliberately. And I have asked her, "Why did you do that?" And she has answered, "Because I could." I do not want to become that woman. So I must take care.

So here's to you mother. It's late in coming, but I do forgive you. I did admire and adore you even as I feared you.

Adagio for Strings With a Twist

I Took Your Advise

I went outside, pulled weeds with my naked hands, now my back aches and my hands are like sandpaper. Are you happy now? I came in for ice tea and in bending down to find the slice of lemon left in the veggie bin I got a good whiff of the inner depths of my fridge. It was not pleasant. I pasted up a sign on the front that labeled my fridge "Denmark" and opened the freezer to get some ice. It was a jumble of haphazardly thrown in portions of everything freezable. Little single servings of one bone-in pork chop, one skin-on ribs-in chicken breast. Two unopened bags of peas, frozen pineapple, blueberries, raspberries, vodka, old ice cream that got tossed right away since who wants ice cream with an inch of frost? So I moved from the mess in the garden, that still doesn't look any different, to the refrigerator which I can't remember cleaning in the past year.

One of the neurosis I caught from my mother was the always packed fridge, as if she were cooking for a family of four even when she lived alone. Crammed with every condiment known to man, exotic oils, bitters, capers, gibson onions, three kinds of pickles, four varieties of jelly and jam, beer, vermouth, soft drinks, milk, mayonnaise (which I consider a food group) mixed greens, green pepper, sliced portobello mushrooms, wilting celery, green onions, one limp jalepeno pepper, a small wad of liquifying cilantro, and so on. The cupboards are similarly stocked. I could feed unexpected guests though there will never be unexpected guests. Anyone unexpected will never get through the gate without having the dogs let out to greet them. No, there will be no unexpected guests.

Well now the fridge is clean, I discovered a collection of small containers of some kind of left-over way at the back of the second or third shelf, and they were completely unrecognizable, so covered in furry mold were they. Out damn spot! Yes, I can hear you making that universal sound of disgust. I will pretend I didn't hear that, but I did.

The freezer is now clean too. I feel ever so well provisioned now that everything that's in there is actually edible and not reeking either.

But I cleaned the whole thing without using gloves. I used water with a little soap and enough bleach to chap my hands further. Now there are little cracks at the end of a couple of fingers. And my back aches. I did fix myself the most delicious dinner. Pure comfort food. Milk soaked breast of chicken, breaded with flour and cornmeal, seasonings, fried in peanut oil and butter, mashed potatoes, chicken gravy, and peas with dill and butter. Uummm. It was great.

I'll take one of my 800mg ibuprofen, a 5mg diazipam, and stretch out for an evening of channel surfing and chain smoking.

I did not visit the blogs today. If I could drag my computer into my bed, I'd be reading and commenting up a storm. But the tips of two of my typing fingers have little red fissures and my computer is not a lap top. It hurts to type. Can you hear the whine in my voice? The fingers will get the hydrogen peroxide and bag balm treatment. A good night's sleep and I'll be right as rain tomorrow. Then I'm going to talk a bit about therapy. I've been mulling it over.

I'll Be Outside Getting Some Sun Today

Seems I have a number of Jewish Mothers out there. And just for all of you, I'll post evidence of my time outside, because it would be so easy to lie to you and say I did when I didn't. I can be a stubborn contrarian. But I do feel that your suggestions that I get out and about are meant to do me some good. I should not always rebel against everyone just on general principal. When I saw Rebel Without A Cause, I really understood the impulse implied in that title. And having spent a lifetime wanting to be the best girl in the world, and so pissed off that at the same time I wanted to be perfect, I also wanted to say "fuck you" to every person who ever tried to tell me what to do. This might have something to do with the three failed marriages.

Anyway, If you want me today, I'm out in the garden.

Thanks for the email Soairse Daily2

Falling Slowly

Yesterday's Trip Out Into The World

Despite the before and after pictures, yesterday went very well. I think what wore me out was all the gadding about before the therapy, and the trip to the bank and the grocery store after. But the therapy itself was very productive and helpful. However the journey to and fro was almost more interesting then the therapy itself.

I am a notorious recluse. So any outing where I bump up against other humans is sometimes a mine field for me. I don't like people much in the abstract, but I do run into people I like instantly, like the three sisters who run the gas station where I got my fill-up. These are three of the funniest, warmest women I've ever met at a gas station. I will now never get my gas anywhere else. They have made a loyal customer.

I was washing the 8 yards of thick fabric I cover my couch with at the laundry across the street from the gas station. So while my fabric was washing I went next door to fill my gas tank. I pulled up to the pump I wanted and discovered my tank was on the other side of the car. I repositioned the car and found the pump was out of order. So after three tries I got pulled up to a working pump, then I couldn't find the release for the cover of my gas cap. I know this sounds ridiculous, but I bought this vehicle last summer from a neighbor and I drive so little (and even then don't go very far) I have only put gas in the car twice before, and each time had to get some guy to show me where the gas cover release is. It's embarrassing. After about five minutes of searching I finally figured that out. Then I put the chosen nozzle in the tank and couldn't figure out how to start the pump. I spent five minutes trying, then headed into the store thinking that maybe I had to pay before I could pump. I usually hate to ask men to help me since I don't like to see myself as an idiot woman who can't do anything for herself, so I was expecting some young man to be manning the cash register who would give me that look that says, "idiot old woman", but instead I was greeted by three women who were in the midst of a jocular banter with one another. Turns out they are the women who run the place and were cheerful about giving me the gas pumping tutorial. Then while I was pumping gas, two of the sisters were leaning against the building smoking. So when I finished filling the tank and washing the filthy windows, and emptying the ashtray, I walked over to thank them and ask if I could take their picture. They cheerfully agreed. The photo above is of me and one of the smiling jocular sisters. I'll never buy gas at another station. That's what cheerful customer service gets you--loyal customers.

This is the first time I've taken my camera with me on an outing. I have a fairly large digital camera and it's not like whipping out a cellphone with a built-in camera. And then I have to carry its case slung over my shoulder along with my purse. But yesterday I wanted to take pictures of the Valley Mental Health facility where the Masters Program (for bipolar patients over fifty) is located. But carrying your camera around with you makes you want to take pictures of almost everything. I'll link to Picasa and post these photos of the commercial district in my area called Sugarhouse and then south to Valley Mental Health. Later when my head clears and I've had my second cup of coffee, I'll tell you all about the hour and a half session with my therapist and the half hour with my psychiatrist. All good. No medication changes.

Here are the photos I took of my trip to get my head shrunk.

Therapy Today

I was awakened two hours earlier than scheduled by Ms M, whose room mate makes several noisy trips back and forth on the ancient creaky oak floor from her room to the bathroom, opening and closing the bathroom door, running water for a bath and so on. Usually Ms M sleeps late on her day off, but this morning she came walking into my place at 8:30 straight to the big bowl sized cups for her morning latte, which would have been my latte and I would have been drinking it at 10:30. I said, "Is the pot empty?"
"Yes."
"Make another pot, okay?" Then I asked her what the hell she was doing up, but didn't say, "And walking into my place as if..."

She made moaning noises as she drank that cup of coffee. I thought that was rude. Keep it down with your pleasure over my first cup of coffee.
All of this human interaction got me up and ready to head out into the small portion of the Salt Lake Valley I think of as my neighborhood. From here to The Masters Program at Valley Mental Health, and back with several stops along the way. (There will be photos at a future undisclosed date.)

This is me on the way out the door.








This is me when I got home.


Details later.

I'm The Very Picture of Sloth

Greed:	Very Low
Gluttony:	Medium
Wrath:	Very Low
Sloth:	Very High
Envy:	Very Low
Lust:	Low
Pride:	Very Low

Take the Seven Deadly Sins Quiz

The reason I've posted this is that after nearly a month of avoidance I'm now cleaning my house. Then I'm going to therapy. Pictures later.

Hey, Technorati! Why So Fickle?

I know it's crazy to pay any attention to a little thing like a technorati score, but ever since I installed that damn widget, I can't take my eyes off it. It teases me by changing almost daily--up one point one day, and down one the next. It was only six months ago that I became aware that there was such a thing as a technorati score. The widget lists favorite tags, and I guess if I really wanted to, I could get smarter with my tags. I could pay attention to the momentary fashion of popular tags and label my post with a key word that would jack up my technorati score artificially, but that would be dishonest, and I hate the fact that I give a shit what my technorati score is. I have recently caught myself in so many instances of shallow, foolish, and perhaps hurtful, word flinging, that maybe it's time I put myself in the corner and told myself not to approach the keyboard until I am ready to be smart and witty and write well just for the fun of it, and not give a damn what technorati thought about my tags.

Technorati, you are like the evil stepmother in Snow White with a magic mirror. One of these days, I'm going to take you off that wall, because you've been really pissing me off.

And by the way, Comrade Kevin, my widget really loves you.

A Strong Cup of Coffee

Awarded by
Spadoman
to Utah Savage

Thank you Spadoman. I am touched by this award, as bracing as the coffee I drink every morning. It comes with no strings attached, no chores to do, no obligations. This is an award I can embrace, and it will always give me a jolt of energy to see it here. Blessings like this make life a momentary pleasure that can be repeated whenever the need hits for a cuppa Java.

This is the Bella Award, Coming to Your Blog Soon

Heads up, you know it's coming your way and soon, since this one comes with the responsibility to link it to fifteen, yes, that's 15 deserving bloggers. What makes one a deserving blogger? That I'll leave up to you. I like encouraging new bloggers (yeah like I've been around a long time. I may be old, but I've only been blogging a year and a half. It is now my biggest addiction. It gives me that warm feeling of community that being a recluse prevents in the "real" world.) I feel very close to those of you who visit and comment. I know there are readers who never say anything and I wonder what prevents them. At any rate, if you're new to me I plan to pass this sweet little prize on to you.


If nothing else it makes you pass it to fifteen other bloggers all linked up and friendly like. It came to me from PENolan, of Menopausal Stoner. She and I might be related--if not in the DNA, then in the spirit. She's good people. And here are fifteen others.

Doctor Monkey Von Monkerstein--he's not new, but he knows and has in his hip pocket a great new site posted on his site right now.

StarSpangledHaggis is one of my favorite reads. E writes on a variety of subjects. I'd call her an eclectic writer--always worth the visit.


The Attentive Aphorist otherwise known as TheMom or Moms Nuts. I want her banner. Read That banner or header or whatchacallit for the Attentive Aphorist. Cracks me up every time.

The Lazy Iguana because I was just there and there is a quiz I've got to go back and take.

WeeMousie has a link to a new information site. I'll head back there to pick that link up and bring it home.

Mr. E is the newest smartypants I know. This is going to burden and embarrass him but we'll see if he's got game. He's got nerve and hutzpah to spare, but does he have the chops to link to sixteen bloggers? We'll see.

Spadoman Peace man. Love that photo of the youngest member of the clan. I know this is a girly looking award, but you're secure aren't you.

Shallow Coffee is young and pretty and maybe bipolar too. I think one of the younger bloggers who knows I'm bipolar pointed me in your direction. So far I see lots of spring fashions on your site and god knows I could use a push in the direction of a spring spruce-up, so... I hope this award is welcome at your place.

Telling Secrets is a title I especially like bacause it's what I do. I tell all my secrets. It's a way to exorcise my demons. The problem for me in being a secret teller is that I sometimes tell other people's secrets as well.

Treybald, because I prefer baldness to many of the alternatives men choose when coping with the slow or rapid creeping hair loss that is their lot. You, Treybald have embraced the classic look of the very self confident. Kudos!

Take Your Medicine isn't a new blog, but relatively new to me. Lulu Maude has a lovely voice and a point of view I find simpatico, so that's all it takes to get an award from me. Now take your medicine Lulu Maude.

Mootpoint Neither Here Nor There
Because we have more in common than meets the eye and you are new to me, so this is a way to get to know each other better. I'm not a big stickler for the rules, but the nice thing about doing this linking thing is it brings new people to our attention.

Giggles at Wits and Wiggles who is a great commenter. Thank you for pointing out to me that my therapists terrible taste in clothes and bad hair might be a sign that he is secure with his appearance. But why? is my next question.

Ingrid's Blogger's Roundtable, is not the newest kid on the block but is a wealth of wisdom and good and timely news stories and practical advise and a hell of a twitterer.

LeeAnn's Under The Apple Tree I give you this award for your extraordinary personal generosity and kindness. And because you bake the world's best pumpkin bread.

Details

Stone, a new leaf from the
Chestnut Trees, dirt work
Done on ones bare knees
Stones the color of rust, Color of weathered wood, Color of my Mother's pale Blue eyes but warmer
A cool pink like a sleeping Baby's cheek the leaf
A pale lime green
Stripes in stone, like veins
Pulsing at the throat

Heart Like A Wheel

Alone With Longing

Life left me alone with longing
Pretending I need nothing more
Knowing why I am unloved

At heart an unmet need like hunger
Eats at me and I grow fat on pain
Leaking tears like famished babies

Old, alone, no longer wanting joy
Cracking jokes that no one hears
Waiting for the end of one more

Days of empty longing deaths
Freedom from this rending sorrow
Nothing mends nor ever will

This heart keeps beating without
Meaning why awaken to do nothing
Lasting or redeeming transformation

All the work with time undone
And in the end left to crumble
Alone at last with longing

Peggy Pendleton
5/1/19

What Kind Of Wolf Am I?

I could have answered this question without taking a quiz.

Your result for The What type of wolf are you test...

The Loner

9% Social-ness, 40% Leadership, 9% Morbidity, 82% Lonliness, 40% Inferiority and 20% Beta-ness!

You are the Loner (aka, the Lone Wolf). You don't seem to get along with others, so you prefer to keep to yourself and watch from afar.

Take The What type of wolf are you test at HelloQuizzy

Mint In My Garden

I'm now finally able to drink my favorite beverage--fresh mint tea. This is the patch at the edge of the two steps up to my driveway. This is the time of year I really get my hydrating cleanse on. Mint tea hot, mint tea iced, mint tea mixed with Earl Grey, milky and sweet. I put mint in salads. And when I walk through it as it's everywhere in my garden, it smells great. Dogs come into the house fragrant with the scent of mint. I realize I will never be able to plant a garden where I get a bit of sun because the mint will overtake it in no time at all. I have spearmint, peppermint, and lemon mint.

A Poem In My Pocket

Picked up at Mauigirl's Meanderings this evening. It took my breath away. The post that introduces this poem is also breathtaking.

Assault

I had forgotten how the frogs must sound
After a year of silence, else I think
I should not so have ventured forth alone
At dusk upon this unfrequented road.

I am waylaid by Beauty. Who will walk
Between me and the crying of the frogs?
Oh, savage Beauty, suffer me to pass,
That am a timid woman, on her way
From one house to another!
-Edna St. Vincent Millay

My Therapist, Fred

Fred returned my call yesterday evening just as President Obama was starting his press conference. As you might have guessed, when the phone rang, I checked caller ID and seeing that it was an "unknown caller," I picked up and hung up since it was the hour of day most nuisance calls are made--telemarketers, insurance companies trying to tell me I MUST have insurance coverage to get the most out of my medicare coverage (lying, opportunistic bastards). I wonder why they think calling while most people are sitting down to dinner is a smart idea? If I'm not watching something that's really important to me, I like to tell them what asswipes I think they are. I try to keep them on the phone as long as possible while I tell them the truth about their smarmy business. But last night I was watching the President, so I just hit on and then off so it was obvious that I was not just ignoring the call but actually hanging up. The phone rang again almost instantly, so I thought I was going to have to yell at someone.

Turns out it was Fred calling from The Masters Program where discretion is important, so no caller ID. Since this was a call I really needed to take, I cranked down the volume on the TV and Fred and I talked about my appointment with my internist yesterday. In my conversation with her while she was checking my clotting factor, I told her I'd figured out that what had begun as a mild upper respiratory infection has turned into a mild case of mood disorder heading toward depression. We talked about the specific drugs I'm on for bipolar disorder and she suggested that rather than switch to another antidepressant I might just need an increase in the dosage of my major antidepressant. I like this idea, since the antidepressant I'm on (Doxepin Hydrochloride) doesn't usually interfere with my sleep cycle and allows me to dream. It does add weight. So far it's put 30 pounds on my normally slender frame. If I were still modeling this would be a deal breaker, but now I don't really give a shit about an extra thirty pounds. What I do care about is this volatility, this whipping around of my moods, this creeping downturn into cottony dumbness and drifting off to sleep in the middle of the afternoon. A half hour nap in the mid afternoon would be terrific, but once asleep, I can't wake up. And whether or not I take that three hour "nap," I'm waking up at 4:30 in the morning with a killer headache. For a woman who was never a morning person, this is way out of character for me. I hate being wide awake when it's still dark outside. I hate Morning Joe. I was raised by a person who thought early morning was the best time of the day, and anyone who disagreed with her was an idiot. I guess we already know I'm an idiot. But the dark before dawn is highly overrated in my opinion.

Anyway, I have an appointment next Wednesday early afternoon. Fred is a civilized man. He may have some serious image problems (that I could fix if he'd only listen to me) but even though he looks stupid, he's smart. He used to be my Group leader. I was skeptical at first, because how could anyone with a combover and scraggly shoulder length dingy gray hair, wearing a really ugly Hawaiian shirt, black polyester pants, a belt with a big round buckle (almost covered by a pot belly) and cowboy boots be smart? If this sounds familiar to anyone reading it you know this thread in my relationships with men marks me as shallow in the extreme. Come to think of it, every man I've loved and left got a makeover.

My Garden On The 29th Of April

Spring Garden evidence that I do go outside and enjoy the sun. I took all these photos today.

Riding the Bipolar Roller Coaster

It's been a long time, in bipolar terms, since I experienced a real depressive episode. But I remember, now that I've been going through it again, that depression sometimes presents as organic illness. I start to feel sick. Feeling sick is not my normal state. This feeling sick sends me to my internist. And in the early phase I might have some mild and transient illness that can either be treated or waited out. But I don't bounce back. Feeling ill lingers. Not sick enough to simply stay in bed, but not well enough to want to do much of anything. It's a headache that's hard to get rid of, or a bowel disturbance, or low grade fever, or a slow, creeping stupidity that scares me more than anything. It's the transitions from one pole to the other that are the most dangerous. It's when we, the bipolar, realize depression is bearing down on us and we still have the energy to do something about it, that we know we can't stand it again. That's when we think about suicide. If I were suicidal, I would not be talking about it, so relax. I'm not suicidal. But I have been there, more than once. It's why I don't fear death by cancer or heart disease or a fatal car accident.

In Salt Lake, under the umbrella of medicare, we have Valley Mental Health. And within Valley Mental Health is a group called The Master's Program. You have to be bipolar and over fifty to qualify. I think calling a program for the old bipolar patients The Masters Program is both funny and apt. If you've lived past fifty and you are bipolar, you're damn special. You have survived a very difficult life. And I'm always amazed how many of us there are. We are often treated for substance abuse(self medicating) which might result in a bit of trouble with the law, especially for men. Men are more likely to be incarcerated than women, since men are more likely to be violent against others, where as women are more likely to be self destructive.

We can be extremely charming, and we can be horrid. I would not choose a bipolar friend to hang around with. In my opinion many of us are more trouble than we're worth. And in transition we can be seething with barely suppressed rage. In a manic phase we can seem as if we're taking large doses of amphetamines--motor mouthed and loud. I sure wouldn't chose to spend my time with anyone like me. But for the person experiencing a bit of mania it's damn fun. We all live for the hypomanic phase of the illness. But, like the way down, the way up is also dangerous.

All this to say, I called The Masters Program today, got through the gate keepers to the psychiatrist's nurse. She said she would get back to me tomorrow when she'd had a chance to talk to Dr. Issabela, whose booked two months out. So I was instructed to call Fred, my therapist, set up an appointment on a day Dr. Issabela will be in the office. She will look in on me between appointments, consult with Fred and between them they will decide if I go off Doxepin Hydrochloride and back on Zoloft. I have over the course of my life dealing with this monster illness found that not that many of the drugs to control my illness are tolerable to me. They all have some side effects. And some are worse than others. This drug gives you tremors and this drug makes you fat, this drug makes you stupid and this drug steals your dreams. Go ask Alice. I'm guessing she was bipolar.

I'm Spending the Day At Three Dames With A Clue

Yes, I'm getting out and around today. I'll even spend some time in the sun, Lib. But if anyone cares to make the trip, I'm spending the day at Three Dames With a Clue. It was Katie Schwartz, that very witty and energetic broad, who issued the invitation. So far the other women they've featured in this series of women who have reinvented themselves and write about it are some very accomplished women--with published books and marriages that work. So, I see myself as their one fruitcake without a clue. The questions were pretty simple and straightforward: What's your name, what's your read about, how do you reinvent yourself? My task, as I saw it, was to keep it brief. Ask me a simple question and I'll give you a complicated, convoluted answer that never seems to satisfy. But still, I'd love it if you'll visit me there.

Creeping Depression

Well, this morning I put in a call to my shrink for an appointment. So I wait for a call-back to set up a time. I seem to be slipping into a depression like a warm bath on a cold day. Yes, sometimes sleepiness feels good, especially if you have nothing pressing to do. Taking care of Cyrus is one job I don't neglect, but Cyrus, if he had a shrink, would probably be categorized as a depressed dog. And why not? Cyrus spent his first 9 years in a "shelter" mostly kenneled with a dog run. This would account for his inclination to always pee in one place and poop in one place not far from where he pees. I have never seen this behavior in another dog, so I'm speculating the kennel and dog run were his world. According to what Cyrus' Vet and I can tell from his behavior (completely content to doze beside my bed most of the day) he is happy here. But if this is happy, sad must have been terrible. He is now living on borrowed time, as am I. We seem to be two peas in a pod.

I plan to let myself do what I'm inclined to do--nap. A nap for the depressed could be round the clock sleep, waking only to go to the bathroom. I've had my usual two big mugs of coffee and milk. It has not made the slightest difference in my inclination to go back to sleep. And yard work is out of the question for me today. I just don't care that I have plenty to do. It's plenty to do that will either get done this year or will wait till next year.

When I met Ricardo I wanted to have a birthday party to introduce him to friends. But since Ms M has no interest in getting to know him, other than money, I have nothing to offer him. He doesn't seem to be terribly motivated by money. He seems far more interested in getting to know Ms M. I think it would be hard to find a better man, but romance is a mysterious emotion. You either feel it or you don't.

Now I have no interest in a birthday party. I've decided to pass. I've also decided to go back to bed. I have no appetite. That's nice. No appetite means no effort to come up with something tasty. I ate a banana. I will not starve. I'll take some vitamins and call it good.

And I won't be doing much visiting blogs today, since I hear the sirens call of sleep.

Bea Arthur is Now Singing With Rock Hudson, If There Is A God

Like a thief in the night I've gone creeping about reading. And though I too will miss Bea Arthur I hadn't found just the thing I wanted to post to note her passing. And then I stopped by E's at StarSpangledHaggis, and found this:



And if you know me, you know why this is one of my favorites. And like E says, it's "So Retro"

Cal, I'm Sorry

I have done something so casually cruel and careless that I can barely stand to be in the same room with myself. I have tossed off what I hope will be the last bitch slap of my entire life. I often do this with remarks about rightwing fundamentalists or other political types with whom I disagree. I think of this as snark, but maybe now is the time for me to give up snark as a form of expression. Since I have taken snark from the political to the very personal and in a most shallow and careless way, I have injured a man who did nothing more than attempt to befriend me. In this instance I have become my mother, and the feeling of having been possessed of my mother's lack of sensitivity for the feelings of others is almost too awful to bear. Cal, I'm sorry, and I know it's too late to take anything back. What I have said and done stands out starkly for me. I see the bitch who lives inside of me. It will require some very difficult work for me to exorcise this creature. She is not a woman I wish to be, much less live with. I am embarrassed and ashamed of myself. I need to work very hard at learning the delicate art of friendship before I can trust myself to be kind and considerate enough to offer friendship to anyone. As it is, savage was truer a name for me than I ever realized before.

Seeing With Old Eyes

I have always known that none of us sees things exactly the same way. I'm not speaking of having a different point of view, I'm talking about the literal act of seeing. I discovered this when I was six or seven. My mother had a friend she only saw once or twice a year. I thought this woman was lovely. She had red hair and pink cheeks. She almost always wore green. And warmth was what radiated from her eyes. I told my mother after this woman left our house one day that I thought she was pretty. My mother said, "My god, you've got bad taste. She's gaudy and cheap looking." It was in this moment that I knew my mother and I did not see the world the same way--that what was pretty to me was gaudy to her.

I have since noticed with my friends that what I choose to photograph or paint is not something they usually see as beautiful. I have one friend who works hard to make herself appear invisible. I have another friend who works very hard to make herself seen.

As for point of view, I believe there is nothing that can't be talked about, examined, and therefore "seen." My two friends both think most personal things should remain personal. This means to me that there are things they think should be secret--the dirty laundry of their lives. I think nothing cleans dirty laundry faster than a good airing. So in this metaphorical sense we do not see the world the same way.

I've been thinking about seeing because I've been taking photographs again. Looking at the photos from my past life that I've chosen to frame and put on the wall. They are all photos of small architectural details from places I've lived and loved. But the person I lived with in those places is absent. I have no family photos anywhere in my house except in old dusty albums tucked in the closet. I have so few memories of my family that are free of pain that I have chosen not to look at them anymore. But it was only after years of minute examination of their impact on my life and the truth and validity of my memories and feelings that I was able to put them away.

Nude with Pottery

Santa Barbara Pottery from Tom

This is a pot I loved the moment I saw it, and it hurt a little because after I moved out Tom did all the things I wanted him to do when I lived there. I like a space of my own. I wanted him to remodel the outbuilding at the Santa Barbara mountain top house so I'd have a little house of my own. When I returned years later, he'd done everything in his elegant and muscular way. I loved many of the elements he brought into the main house to warm it up. And this was one of those things. When he moved to Costa Rica he gave it to me. So this is the pot now. Next up will be the pot earlier with female torso. Obviously, I like this pot a lot.

It sits above the closet of the little house with other largish things I like and brought with me from the big house.

Saw Horse

I'm starting to take photos again but always examining the small things within my eyes sight. I like the human form and face but when you aim a camera at anyone who knows your doing it you do not get the picture you wanted and they begin to grouse about their lack of make-up or the clothes they're wearing and it turns into something else. I also like the architectural element, the simple things. We almost miss seeing this beauty of form and texture since these are lowly useful tools or structures.

Unadorned Bare Feet

First there was the cropped detail, a bit of thigh, then there is the long shot of the bare feet, and the distance between the two is missing. I experiment with flesh and inside light at night, no flash and photographing parts of my own body, because no one else will pose for me. This also used to be my problem as an artist. So I looked into a mirror and painted a woman, who, once painted, was no longer me. Self-portrait after self- portrait. Experimenting with learning to drawing, then pen and ink, then water color. I'm now trying to see what my digital camera and the computer can do without photoshopping the photos. And the self portrait is not possible with a camera. I hold the camera to my eye. I don't have to, but a lifetime of holding a 35mm camera to my eye, keeps me from using a camera any other way. If I had a tripod and knew how to set the timer I could take the photos. Maybe someday I will become a visual artist again studying the minutia of my tiny world.

What Is This?

Is it a landscape? Is it a painting? Is it a photograph? Is it animal, vegetable, mineral? Is it bigger than a breadbox, smaller than a sand dune? Is it sunrise, sunset, or artificial light?

Auto Tune the News direct from Rachel Maddow

This is a must see. I can't embed this link but if you didn't see it live it's a must see. Trust me on this one.

Jay S Bybee and Monica Goodling: Both Products of a Religious Education

Born 1953 in Oakland, CA Federal Judicial Service: Judge, U. S. Court of Appeals for the Ninth Circuit Nominated by George W. Bush on January 7, 2003, to a seat vacated by Proctor R. Hug, Jr.; Confirmed by the Senate on March 13, 2003, and received commission on March 21, 2003. Education: Brigham Young University, B.A., 1977 Brigham Young University, J. Reuben Clark Law School, J.D., 1980

Assistant attorney general, Office of Legal Counsel, U.S. Department of Justice, 2001-2002

I post this because this is a such a lack luster education (Brigham Young University is owned by the Mormon Church) for a man with the power to write the justification for torture. I misunderstood the importance of a religious education or a mid-life conversion ( G W Bush) for those looking for the power to implement a policy of ideological indoctrination for all government employees at every level, and to turn us into into a nation with a torture program. It's hard to imagine that a religious education relieves a man of scruples and the capacity to know right from wrong. Or that a conversion mid-life isn't accompanied by a strong commitment to doing the work of Jesus, which is all about love, acceptance and forgiveness.

A boy from Oakland would go to a school like BYU for a couple of reasons: Either he didn't get offered scholarship money anywhere else, or he's a true believer. It's about as well known for it's law school as Regent University, Pat Robertson's law school. And we all know how well Monica Goodling (the best known graduate of Regent) did in her short legal career. It's okay, I guess, so long as you have no real curiosity and no serious ambition. That is unless you hitch your wagon to an administration looking for those who are not terribly well educated but have a fundamentalist background and a lack of ethics. This was a hallmark of the Bush Administration. From top to bottom, they are the most vociferous proponents of "Christian Values" ( wanting to find a way to force their version of them on all of us) yet the least ethical public servants of any I've seen in my long life. They happily trample the rule of law and seem without any discernible ethics or conscience.

Impeach and Charge Judge Jay Bybee

Judge Jay Bybee of the 9th Circuit Court of Appeals (he is also a completely amoral Mormon) was the author of the Torture Memos.

There is a growing call to Impeach Judge Bybee. It's about damn time. Then charge and convict him. Then do all the little things he dreamed up in his fevered and tiny brain to drive prisoners insane, brain dead, broken--do all these things to him. Do them all once at least and supervised by trained professionals from Gitmo with a doctor present to make sure, if he's really unable to breathe, he gets a tracheotomy. Oh yeah, give him the full panoply of tortures of which he seemed so fond. Then ask him if he's been tortured. And then ask him if this treatment of prisoners should be legal.

This is the the very ordinary face of evil. This clean cut, well educated, Mormon asshole wrote the torture memos and then was rewarded for it with a seat on the bench of the 9th Circuit Court of Appeals. I'm surprised he didn't get a Medal of Honor too.

Where The Hell Did This Fat Come From?

I eat two meals a day and I'm not a snacker unless it's after midnight and I can't get the chocolate out of my mind. But even then I only let myself have two squares of the Special Dark, or the Breyer's all natural chocolate ice cream. I like an ice cream cone once in awhile, but not every night. I eat brunch which usually consists of cantaloupe and toast or whole grain unsweetened Cheerios and frozen blue berries with 2% organic milk. I might have a banana sometime in the afternoon, or I might have nothing. And then a modest meal around eight or nine. I do drink a lot of very milky espresso with a tablespoon of sugar. Two big mugs full. I drink very good tea that I order from Special Teas and I either drink it sweet and iced or milky and hot. I'm trying to force myself to drink more water, but I watched Frontline last night and now I'm afraid of tap water and any water that's in plastic is full of PCBs. Where was the plastic made and how toxic is it? And how much more money can I spend on water for Christ's sake? So I take it straight from the tap. I guess I could make it more palatable if I squeezed some lemon in it, but I can't afford lemons. I'm complaining about water to avoid something. I'm avoiding the fat. Can you tell? Still, you should be very nervous about your water supply.

This long and harsh Winter and long slow wet Spring have kept me inside. I have turned into the Venus of Willendorf over night, or so it seems to me. There have been weeks I haven't bothered to look in a mirror because it's just too painful. So my eyes slide past without ever focusing on the blur that is my rather large moving form. I was outside yesterday cleaning the gazebo and had my camera with me. Walking to the tool shed I looked down to take the two steps down from the porch to the deck and saw my Wellingtons, and then my shadow. I turned and twisted trying to get the light just right to slim the figure in shadow and could never quite find the woman I once knew.

Rachel Maddow Tweeted This To Me (okay and some others...)

Rachel Maddow and I are now tweeting at my place. I just woke up at noonish, got my coffee, took the dogs outside, fed them, and then checked twitter. I may have died and gone to heaven. My first visible tweet of the day is Ms Maddow's and it's amazing. Check this out. I know you've seen Jonathan Mann on The Daily Show or Colbert, and various news shows, but now he's hit his stride and todays song is...?
Waterboarding.

After linking to the song, she links us to the lyrics. Ms Maddow knows how to get the facts straight and even when you're crying about the lyrics, you're amazed at the talent of the singer and then horrified at what the Bush Administration gave us, and how very much Crazy Unka Dick loves, loves, loves justifying his torture program and how very very very effective it was. Keep talking Unka Dick. Maybe you'll get tortured someday. Well, I can dream, can't I?

Megan McCain's Terrible Twitter Tantrum

Yes, I know, it's hard to believe, but Megan is a chip off the old block. She swears, she blusters, she puffs up with her own delusions of relevance and gets her rage on in tweets. Andrew Malcome (my favorite LA times blogger and big time twitteratti) tells the tawdry details in yesterdays news. That's how I like this kind of news. Stale. And with a link about Megan not only going apeshit but prevaricating while doing it. See what I mean? She's a real chip off the old block.

For the actual transcript of the terrible twitter tantrum follow this trail to The Wonkette. For Andrew Malcome's blog and more of the little details see the excerpt below or check out my side bar. I have my morning coffee with Andrew.

Using her Twitter account, which limits users to 140-character messages, McCain produced a lengthy series of angry Tweets -- some using the #$%&!* word.

They detailed her numerous life activities starting with volunteer tutoring at 16 and helping receive flowers at a hospital desk and internships and moving up through writing a children's book and founding "my multi-award-winning website mccainblogette.com, which is officially the first blog in history to document a presidential campaign." (Her father's, of course.)

Because Andrew Gives Great News

The last thing any fun-loving politics blog would ever do would be to cheapen itself on a slow weekday by publishing a couple of color photographs of some hunky guy who works out every day and happens to be president of the United States, just to prompt thousands of readers -- all right, lookers -- to click on its pages.

Yeah, Andrew and my blog wouldn't stoop to stealing from your blog to link back to your blog so we can all drool about our very hot, hot, hot president, shirtless and ripped, oh yeah. I'm drooling on my keyboard.

Please Take Action Now!

Dear MoveOn member,
On Thursday, President Obama released memos that describe, in horrific detail, the torture techniques authorized by the Bush administration. The memos make clear that top Bush officials didn't just condone torture—they encouraged it.

So far there's been no accountability for the architects of Bush's torture program—the top officials who justified keeping detainees awake for 11 days straight, waterboarding them repeatedly, and forcing prisoners into coffin-like boxes with insects.1

We need real consequences for those responsible—it's the only way to keep this from happening again. Attorney General Holder can open an investigation into the torture program—but he most likely won't unless people everywhere speak up and demand it.

Can you sign our petition to Attorney General Eric Holder asking him to appoint a special prosecutor to investigate the torture program? If we can reach 200,000 signatures, we'll deliver the petition to Holder by the end of the week. Clicking here will sign your name:

http://pol.moveon.org/torture/o.pl?id=15951-8978383-qfr31Px&t=3

The petition says: "No one is above the law. It's time to appoint a special prosecutor to investigate and prosecute the architects of the Bush-era torture program."

Calls for action, from the United Nations, the ACLU, Amnesty International,2 Senators Leahy and Feingold, and others, are gathering steam. The New York Times made the case for accountability in an editorial:3


"...[Obama] has an obligation to pursue what is clear evidence of a government policy sanctioning the torture and abuse of prisoners—in violation of international law and the Constitution.
"

This isn't about retribution or politics. It's about accountability. If hundreds of thousands of us speak up, we can make sure Holder hears this loud and clear.
http://pol.moveon.org/torture/o.pl?id=15951-8978383-qfr31Px&t=4

Thanks for all you do.

–Nita, Kat, Peter, Ilyse, and the rest of the team

P.S. You can see all the Bush administration memos here.

Someone is Reading Me in Costa Rica

It must be Tom. Last time I talked to him, he was calling me from an Airport somewhere like Dallas or Miami sitting on the plane to Costa Rica. It was only the flight attendant's last announcement that got him to hang up. Oh the miracle of the Cell Phone! I may yet go to my grave never having owned one. I will be the last hold out. I do not want to be always available, always accessible, always on call. For awhile, when I was still hot as a talent, my agent insisted I needed either a cell phone or a pager. I opted for the pager.

When Tom last called he said he was going to Costa Rica for a month. That was at least six months ago or more. But with the birthday season approaching; if he's alive, he'll call. For two months, I'm older than he is. He seems to like that two month period when he is a younger old man. I hope the reason he's stayed so long in Costa Rica this time is Love with a capital L. Tom is a man who seems to need a woman in his life. It would be a shame if he chose to spend his time traipsing through the lives of the wives and lovers of his past. It's nice he still seems fond of us, but it would be better for him to actually live with a woman who loves him. I like to see him with another woman, one he really loves, one he can risk introducing to the rest of us.

My childhood seems to have made me immune to reciprocal romantic love. I might be in love, but I could never afford to weather the bad times and make it work. I ran at the slightest provocation. I left every man I ever loved.

But I Feel So Bla...

I worked myself into a frenzy, sweating enough to strip down to the wife-beater T shirt, yoga pants and Wellington's. I worked hard outside and in. I drank water as I worked. Now I ache in every bone and muscle. And though it's gorgeous outside I'm filled with lassitude. Is it me or is it bipolar disorder? It would be awful to slip into depression now, just when it's safe to go outside again. I'm just short of wanting to slip into a cottony sleep. And it just might be that the last three months of feeling sickish, are really the usual first symptoms of a mood swing. So many times after a long period of feeling good, I started feeling like I had a strength sucking virus. Tests would be done, even going so far as to an endocrinologist for a work up. And after months of tracking down the culprit, the final verdict would be depression. This is not the right season for depression. I don't want depression. I will not be depressed. But it creeps in on tiny cottony feet and saps your strength. It confuses you and makes you drift off course. I start one project and then notice another and am finally convinced before I do this big a job I will have to have a nap. But I yearn to be outside....

The Rat, The Cat, and the Dog

This is one of the many things I love about Santa Barbara. There are people and sights like this all along State Street. Not only are they allowed to entertain everyone on State Street as street entertainers, they are actually beloved members of the community even if they hail from Colorado.

Thanks YDG

Eizzy K Gave Me An Award For My Poetry!

What makes this especially important to me is that Eizzy K is a poet and a reader of my poetry. I write poetry so seldom that I have neglected the site. I don't know when I got this award exactly, but I'm really thrilled that it comes from a young poet to an old woman who hardly considers herself a poet. And Eizzy K, called me "Savage Queen" which makes me cry with this welcome elevation to royalty. It's one thing to write the occasional poem, but some of the poets in the blogosphere write a poem a day. That amazes me, since I only write poetry when a poem presents itself to me and gives me no choice. It's like having a vision or a little stroke or a mild seizure. So thank you Eizzy K.

One of the things I love about this award is the muscularity of it. It has an industrial, workman-like aspect that appeals to me esthetically and politically--it reminds me of my fondness for the labor movement. I love the wage earning working men and women of this world.

Now I have to think of ten things you don't yet know about me.

1. I fantasized a life as a labor organizer. I'm completely pro labor, and damn proud of it. I read The Jungle, by Upton Sinclaire when I was in my early teens. That was the beginning of my desire to be a labor organizer. Yet I have never been a member of a union.
2. Kindness makes me cry. I have toughened myself over a lifetime of cruelty from my family to be unmoved by the carelessly tossed off insult, but a kind and loving word brings tears I can't control.
3. I'm a socialist. I think the public utilities should be owned by the public. Water should not be sold. Nor should the oil and coal be owned by a company with a profit motive. If Alaska owns it's oil, why don't the rest of us own our oil? I'm not a fan of capitalism. Capitalism has given us a meltdown of the world's economies. What the financial services industries have done amounts to an enormous Ponzi scheme. Those responsible for the collapse should be prosecuted for gross malfeasance. I want single payer universal health care.
4. I would sell my soul to get my novel published. And yet I fear rejection so much I'm avoiding the edit on the first three chapters because then I will have no excuse for not finding another contest or opportunity to submit the manuscript. The most embarrassing thing about this procrastination is that MRMacrum has done the edit for me. All I have to do is print the copy of his editorial suggestions and get to work. I am sabotaging myself. I should be toughened to rejection--I spent my working life going to auditions. I did not get every job I auditioned for. The rejection was nothing I took personally, and yet the book is my baby.
5. I love the underdog, literally. I will take an animal no one else will, just to give it a bit of happiness and security before it dies. I'm sentimental for the person or animal who has been treated badly. I would love to be able to rescue all those needing rescue. But I can only rescue one creature at a time.
6. I care little for wealth and have never been ambitious enough to strive for money. It shows now. I worked in a industry where the pay is enormous for merely being pretty and showing up for a couple of hours of easy work and knowing how to move on a runway or pose for a photo. I was always embarrassed by this profession. Why so much money for something that is actually bad for society? I worked as little as possible.
7. I purposely avoided getting academic credentials as a way of pissing off my mother.
8. I married three men I did not love, and, if asked, would not have married the one man I always loved.
9. I do not like my fellow humans much. Oh I like a few people very much, but generally I avoid crowds. I have chosen the life of a recluse because I like being alone.
10. Poems take me like possession. Sadly that possession comes rarely.

The recipients I have chosen for this award are:
1. The Crow
2. Sarah's Dancing With The Waves of the Sea
3. Steve Emery
4. Pagan Sphinx
5. Watergate Summer
6. Alphaville
7. Naj
8. Mr E

These are the rules:
Then the instructions for the 'chosen ones' ;
1.You must brag about the award
2.You must include the name of the blogger who bestowed the award on you and link back to the blogger
3.You must choose a minimum of seven (7) blogs that you find brilliant in content or design. 4.Show their names and links and leave a comment informing them that they were prized with Honest Weblog.
5.List at least ten (10) honest things about yourself.
Then pass it on with the instructions!

Remember, I did not make the rules, I just pass them along.

Tortuous Logic

The first time it was verified for all of us that we were not who we thought we were, was when we saw those horrendous photos from Abu Ghraib snapped as if they were staged, so awful, so casual, so matter-of-factly snapped, little mementos, trophy photos to take home and brag about. And once leaked to the press, verification that we do indeed torture. Horrifying and undeniable evidence that we do torture. And we torture those who have not been charged, and who have not been found guilty of anything more than being young, male, and Iraqi living in Iraq. In the wrong place at the wrong time.

To say that we don't torture now is a good start, but to say we will not prosecute those who torture is wrong. We did prosecute the low level interrogators (thankfully) stupid enough to snap those photos. It is a fact. A precedent has been set. What we are now saying is that we will not prosecute the low level CIA or other intelligence agency's interrogators. That's a double standard and forgets that we have international treaties which require that we prosecute these crimes at all levels, even the judicial. We need to prosecute all the way to the top. Otherwise we remain a nation of torturers in the eyes of the world. Hypocrites, liars, torturers in our standing on the international stage. We need a soul cleansing bath in the bracing waters of truth and accountability.

Dick Cheney has been taunting President Obama. This does make President Obama look weak. If we are not a nation that tortures but we have an ex Vice President constantly jabbing President Obama with the taunt of weakness because he is unwilling to continue the policy of torturing prisoners of war, then President Obama's assertion that we no longer torture seems toothless and leaves the door open for future war crimes we will neither investigate nor prosecute. We need to have the soul cleansing that is the outcome of investigations and prosecutions from the top to the bottom.

Keith Olbermann Talks About The Bankers

I was ranting yesterday about the Credit Card Companies' Ads and how offensive they are to anyone who has been dunned into bankruptcy by medical expenses or other emergencies put on a card. When catastrophe strikes and you haven't the ready cash to deal with it, but you do have a credit card in you wallet you've keep up to date and payed off for years-- that's the time you load it up. And then you start getting the calls demanding that you pay your card off now! Well, all you banks that press credit cards on us through deceptive advertising that claim all it takes is a call to make arrangements for lowered payments; you are lying to us again through deceptive advertising. My voice is small and I don't reach that many people with my outrage, but Keith Olbermann does reach a huge audience. Here is one of his wonderful "Special Comments."

Credit Card Ads Are Making Me Furious

There is an ad running now about a woman who has to leave her home and her job to take care of her mother who has Alzheimer's. She gets behind in her credit card payments and starts getting notices from her card holders. And all she has to do to straighten this problem out is pick up the phone and talk to her credit card company. Have you ever tried to call your credit card company? It is an endless loop of voice mail hell. You will never get to talk to an actual person, unless they are calling you to tell you you need to sell you first born into slavery to make your damn payment.

I know because I had to fly to Santa Barbara (ticket on a credit card) rent a car (rental on a credit card) kidnap my crazy mother and drive her back to Salt Lake so I could take care of her since she had vascular dementia and was being evicted from her apartment. Then I had to get someone to watch her while I flew back to Santa Barbara (ticket on a credit card) rent a car (rental on a credit card) empty and clean her house and her storage unit and drive back to Salt Lake with her few salvageable possessions (her incontinence had left her clothing unsalvageable).

My mother required constant watching since every time I closed my eyes she ran away. She would go to the grocery store, gather up the crap she wanted and stand in line at the checkout counter. Then if someone behind her didn't offer to pay for her crap, the store would pay for her crap rather than have her pitch a fit in from of other people. I would then have to pay for her crap with a credit card. My mother started hitchhiking to another store, and got picked up by the cops. This resulted in my getting turned in for not keeping her safe. A charge just short of elder abuse. Then I had to get all the locks on the house changed so my mother couldn't run away, turning my house into a locked fortress to protect her from herself and me from the Ombudsman. And that was my last credit card charge.

Taking care of her full time meant I was unable to work. As I started missing payments (time gets away from you when you can't ever sleep or work or take a bath because something might happen to your mother) the credit card company started an aggressive debt collection campaign. I kept trying to explain my situation, but I guess everyone's got a sob story when they are unable to pay their credit cards. It was only when they called me to dun me, to call me an irresponsible idiot, that I was able to talk to a "real" person. They were in no way helpful. They suggested I sell my ten year old Jetta to pay my credit card bill. Eventually I was forced into bankruptcy.

One of my best friends has had the same credit card for thirty years and has never missed a payment. She was one day late with a payment a couple of years ago and they hiked her interest rate from 7% to 40% without notification to her. It was not until her next bill that she noticed the enormous change in interest charges. She spent a month trying to talk to a real person about her situation. The person she finally got to talk to said, "It's right there in the small print. If you read your statement you would know that we have the legal right to do whatever we deem necessary to protect ourselves from the irresponsibility of card holders like you who think it's fine to pay late or skip payments without consequences." This practice amounts to loan sharking. Now neither of us has a card we ever use to make purchases. We each have a debit card from our credit unions. I never use mine, but if I had to fly or rent a car, I'd need a card.

Fuck you Citibank. Take this card and shove it.