And The Award Goes To......

E at starspangledhaggis who wakes me up with such honesty and fierceness. Whose love and humor for her child’s safe and happy journey fills me with joy. Who faces adversity with funny wonder at the horrors of illness and it’s treatment. For all of this and more, I send you this award. All you have to do is carry it home.





Is This Thing Rigged?

Is it depression creeping up on me, or is it real?

My friend N, who is a retired history professor, and I went to see Where In The World Is Osama Bin Laden? Not a movie I’d recommend on many levels, but I’m no movie reviewer. It did succeed on this level—it made me scared. Scared on a cellular level. There were only three places in all of the greater Middle East that were closed, and unwilling to allow conversation to this crazy New Yorker and his small camera crew—Israel, in the more Hassidic areas, Saudi Arabia everywhere, and the mountainous area of Pakistan where Bin Laden might be living.

Only questions remain. They were posed at the beginning of the film, and it is these unanswered questions that now really scare me. They are all about why we back military dictatorships and/or governments we impose over popularly elected socialists wherever in the world we can. All this has been in the interest of the military industrial complex. Eisenhower warned us of this. And instead, we, since the mid-fifties, in the interest of privatizing everything and consolidating that economic power in the hands of as few as possible, have now turned our backs on our Constitution and Bill of Rights, and are about to give power completely to a couple of families and their cronies. They have their own mercenary army, their NSA. All Hail Skull and Bones.

N thinks McCain will probably win. It is in the interest of power and riches that he win. It is in the interest of ego and ambition that he win. I said, “What if Hillary wins?” He said, “Same foreign policy, same consolidation of power, better economic outcome for the middle class. Maybe.”
“What about Barack?” “I’m worried that both democrats health care plans are run by the insurance companies.”

Reality sucks.

My Worth These Days.

I'm worth a lot more than I thought. Maybe I can make a living. Apparently there is a market for geezer sex. I stole this from Every Thing I Love Causes Cancer. She stole it from someone else, and so it goes. Finally something edifying.

Powered By Sex Stores

From Hope To Bitterness

I woke up yesterday with Hope. Big time Hope. Now I'm really bitter. Bitter and sinking into the mind killing part of depression. Depression turns your brain into damp cotton. The only thing that penetrates the cotton is rage. So stupid and full of rage. That sounds like a full on case of Bitterness to me. And now my hearts arterially fibrillating up a storm, I'm depressed and bitter, and I can't find old reruns of Lawn Order to put me to sleep. My appointment with the cardiologist isn't until next Wednesday. If I weren't so depressed I could take a book to bed, but you have to be just the right kind of depressed to read--it takes a little concentration to really read. But bitterness and depression makes me want to search out a gun show, so I could buy an illegal gun, go to church, and come home and blow myself away. Worry not. I hate going out so much, that even the desire to put a bullet threw (or is it through?) my brian will have to wait until I'm not so bitter.

Busted

God, I hate it when that happens. Vigilante was "kind" enough to point out that I don't know my ass from a hole in the ground. Now I could have said, my ass from a whole in the ground. Or I could say I'm dyslexic, which is almost true, but really I don't know how to spell. Also I don't know when and where to say bear or when to say bare. I'll have to thunk on this some more. I'm sure there are many more such confusions in my vocabulary. Vigilante, with your hep, I'll try to muddle on. In the meantime will you bare(sic) with me?

Depression and Change

I am in despair about the result of the Pennsylvania Primary. I am an old hand at depression and despair. I will survive.

In the meantime I am going to change my blogging life. When all else fails-- change something. So I am starting a blog for my fiction, and this will remain my blog for my political passions and pains. This will be the place I rant and rejoice. I will try to learn a few new tricks. For instance, I'm trying to learn how to do a Blog Roll. I have wanted to learn to link. So this old dog is going to learn some new tricks. It will take some time. Bare with me please.

At Last

I woke up early to catch all the day’s news—got my latte and took the dog out to pee. After we came back inside, I fed him his breakfast and turned on the boobtube to watch this day’s fascinating coverage of, “Pennsylvania finally votes!!!.” I was asleep within minutes.

I have rather scrubbed my concrete floors on my hands and knees, than pay attention to the parade of fools on TV. This is shocking news, since I took the “seven deadly sins test at the Iguana’s site. My only sin is sloth. I tried to read the NY Times. Not even the Times. There is weak sunshine outside, but this is important, damn it. And it’s the same BS everywhere I look for information. And I have been interested all my life. I started this journey toward the democratic nomination with Hope, god dammit. Now I’m bored. I think I’ll clean the toilet. Then Cyrus and I will go for a walk.

Tag, You're It!

Even though I do not know the rules of internet tag, I'm going to try to wing it. As I understand it, I have to write six? was it six? random things about myself. Maybe these things are things I don't talk about much. Little secrets. Frieda Bee wrote six good memories from childhood. Do the things I reveal have to be positive, as in good memories, or just anything, from anytime? Help Frieda, help me now.

1. I have a semi-secret love of South Park. I love those foul-mouthed kids, they remind me of my childhood. The crazy parents, the cross-dressing teacher, the nasty sweetness gets me where I live.

2. When I was seven I charged kids at school five cents to tell them where babies came from. I knew this because my mother told me, in clinical, graphic detail, omitting all the boring "love between two grown-ups who love each other, bla, bla, bla....." So I knew the "He puts his penis in her vagina and stuff squirts out his......... You know the details. Needless to say I got in big trouble at school. My parents thought I was quite enterprising. I made some kids cry with this horrifying info. I bought kosher dill pickles with my sex ed. money from the little store across the street from school and ate them walking home, real happy with my windfall of nickels.

3. My dog eats his own shit. I realize this isn't exactly about me, but still......

4. I have the foulest mouth of any woman I have ever known. I learned all the nastiest words early and have always enjoyed the way they feel in my mouth. I can feign Tourettes Syndrome and scare off strange men who seem menacing to me.

5. Last time I was in New York late one night, I was walking along the street somewhere close to Grand Central Station, smoking a nicely rolled joint. I was wearing a black dress and high heeled boots, just minding my own business, when I dropped my joint. A nice looking young black man coming toward me, noticed that I was bending over feeling around on the sidewalk. He stopped and asked me if I'd dropped my contact lens. I told him I was looking for the joint I dropped, and he put his attache case down and helped me find it. When I picked it up it was out, so I whipped out my lighter, lit-up, and offered him a toke. We stood in the dark and finished the joint, then he said, "thanks, good night," and left. This has been pretty typical of the kindness of strangers. Strangers have never scared me. It was my family that scared me.

6. I used to hitch-hike.

my six taggees:
Scarlet
Phoebe Fay
Liberality
Anita
e. @ StarSpangledHaggis
Gary

Feminism: Have We Come A Long Way, Baby?

I have been a feminist my entire adult life. My mother was one of Utah's pioneering feminists. In the sixties she started the Utah chapter of the National Women's Political Caucus. She was famous for organizing marches and demonstrations protesting the Mormon Church's treatment of women and it's strangle hold on the political life of Utah within the state and in the nations capitol, through it's elected representatives. Maggy won many awards for her work on behalf of women and for giving voice to women's issues. She was the legislative aid to Francis Farley, our first female Utah State Senator.

At one of the award celebrations, sometime in the 1980's, while all these powerhouse women were congratulating one another on the great strides they had made toward equality for woman, I stood and asked the only question of any real relevance regarding the progress that had been made for women--"Why is it that women are making less today in relation to men's pay than they did in the 1940's?" I was not real popular that day. It was not an issue anyone was willing to address when they were so happy to talk about Karen Shephard's election to the Untied States House of Representatives. She served one brilliant term, and then was replaced by the incredibly mediocre Enid Green, the Mormon republican who opposed her. A woman, yes. Progress, no.

So now here we are, almost thirty years later and nothing has changed. Women are still making sixty some odd cents to every man's rapidly shrinking dollar. And now while still making sixty some odd cents to a mans dollar, women have a new hoop to jump through in order to be hireable, and promotable. It is the Beauty Quotient. For an insight into how far we are going backwards, baby, read Naomi Wolf's book, The Beauty Myth.

One last point while we're on the subject--every young woman I meet and then get to know a little, when asked if she is a feminist, says, "No, I'm not a feminist, but I do believe in equal rights for women." Where is the progress in this fear of the label "feminist?"

The Boys On Hardball

Chris Matthews, right now, is turning our presidential primary campaign into a boxing match. Every description of the most recent democratic debate is turned into some trivia drivel about boxing matches of all the late great match-ups from boxing's history. Apperantly if you don't know your boxing history you can't talk on Chris's show. Kind of leaves the female commentators knocked-out of the conversation. Kind of makes me want to say, "Screw You, Chris!" one more time. I have had a hate/hate relationship with Mr. Matthews for a long, long time.

He was on The Colbert Report the other night and nearly made my heart stop. Colbert asked him if the rumors were true about Matthews making a run for Arlen Spector's seat in the Senate. Chris got all moony and serious. His face softened like a young girls, his eyes glistened with such love, such deep adoration and reverence for......himself, I started dancing. This can only mean one thing. For at least as long as Chris is running for a Senate seat we'll will only have to endure him as a candidate. Hopefully Rachel Maddow on the new show in his time slot called Real Women, will treat him as he has treated guests past. She will ask him a question and just as he starts to speak, she will all but tell him to shut up! Then insist that he answer the question! He will open his mouth to suck in air to speak again, and she will cut him off and then ask Eugene what he thinks of Mr Matthew's inability to answer a simple, straight forward question truthfully, implying that Mr Matthews is indeed stupid and not qualified to be dog catcher.

Quaint Customs and Family Values

Utah is a strange place. And since the Pligs are making such great news and causing such controversy and consternation amongst the various cable news personalities, I thought this might be a good time to weight in with my unique perspective. I get to call my perspective unique because I actually have some first hand knowledge of some real Pligs.

Remember April? Not the month, but the youngest child of a Plig family here in Zion. Trying to sort out the history of polygamist families is damn near impossible—everyone is related to everyone else, when you start looking into their past histories—so I’ll just stick to the current history of the members of this particular family. And “I know” means, have met, sat around a diner table with, and (in some cases) have been and (in some cases) am still friends with. If you think that last sentence is confusing and convoluted, you don’t know a Plig family or have Plig friends.

But before we get to April’s family, I’d like to go on record as being in favor of having all the 400 plus children from the Texas compound who have been placed in protective custody, kept in protective custody. None of those kid’s, if released back into their “families” custody, is going to be safe. Children serve several purposes in Plig society—they are potential breeders (that means when the girls start menstruating they are ready to be married off to some old coot with several other wives—since I started my period at eleven, if I had been a Plig child, I could have been married and cranking out babies at eleven). The boys and the girls not of breeding age are child laborers. They clean the houses, prepare the food, work in the fields, etc. Once boys get to the age when they are interested in girls and such, they are mostly expelled from the colony. These are called the Lost Boys. Salt Lake has lots of Lost Boys.

Now, if you have been watching any of the news coverage of this “situation” you might have seen the “mothers” pleading for the return of their children. “We love our children,” is the answer to any and all questions regarding the safety of these children. When pressed about the age at which it is appropriate for these children to start breeding, the “mothers” change the subject back to “We love our children.” And have you noticed the lack of affect in these “mothers?” They all look lobotomized to me.

I was going to tell you more of April's families history, but I’ve run out of steam. I was going to clean my house today, but that too shall have to wait. This fibrillation thingy is exhausting.

Today Is Starting Out To Be Excellent

Thank you, Liberality.

The Pope is Ruining My News Day

Can anyone tell me why I have to watch an entire day of Pope stuff? I am not Catholic. Plenty of us are not Catholic. He may be a head of state in a very small way, after all the Vatican isn't really very big, so why does the Pope get to consume the entire prime-time news coverage? I will not go to church, yet I have had to listen to hours of a Catholic church service. I know, I could turn off the TV, but this is a presidential political season and it does interest me. But the Pope? Not so much. This just adds to my already growing bitterness. I knew I felt something really negative about what was going on in this country and finally it has been spoken of and identified, and it really resonates for me. I'm bitter.

Stormy Weather

Yesterday, the only day of half decent weather we've had this "Spring," I woke up early with vertigo. Had trouble working my way hand over hand to my espresso pot to make my morning bowl of latte. Shakily back to bed to take the small handful of pills that is my first part of the breakfast of champions in Savage land. One cigarette and a few sips of coffee and I did the hand over hand to take Cyrus out for his morning pee. If you are a new reader, please forgive me, Cyrus is my enormous dog, not my husband. No more husbands. Words to live by. Sorry if my anti-marriage sentiments offend anyone, but if you read my profile, you probably understand that I'm only speaking from my own experience and claim no universal truths are told here. I'm not even sure I believe in universal truths, but anyway.

So then I fed Cyrus, and took myself back to bed. A little morning news. Then up and at the computer. But my brain is not working particularly well, so I decide to quit will I'm slightly ahead.

I am still whirling a bit. This could be many things. Dehydration, low blood-pressure, high blood-pressure, allergies, ear problem. I drink a large glass of water, a small swig of olive oil (advise from two smart women) and a glass of orange juice. Back to bed to take my blood-pressure. I rest awhile, wanting to make sure the blood-pressure isn't artificially elevated. (Shut up about the damn cigarette and caffeine.) When I take the blood-pressure it's 190/93, pulse 140, resting. Damn.

I'm thinking, boy am I lucky. I have a doctor appointment tomorrow. We'll just see what the deal is tomorrow. Probably allergies. I take it easy the rest of the morning, reading papers and listening to news. I know, I should probably put music on and really chill, but old habits die hard. (No, no, do not give me any damn lectures).

When my blood-pressure got to be in the normal range, I ate a banana, brushed my teeth, and took Cyrus for a leisurely walk. But it was disconcertingly hot and windy. Since this is the first warm spring day, though it feels like early June, which is lovely in June. I really need to spend some time cleaning late leaves that had been lying under snow, now ringed around the ever hopeful tulips--these can't be raked. I notice that overnight the Chinese apricot has burst into bloom. That's a good sign. But the wind is blowing fiercely and hot. I can smell the leaf mold and little else. Tomorrow is garbage day, so I try to fill the brown can (used for garden waste--only that which can be turned into mulch or bark) then take all three cans to the curb. When I get in the house my eyes are tearing and my nose hurts. Mold and pollen.

The house is hot, even with the windows and door open. I turn on the ceiling fan, and get down to my tank top and yoga pants. And so it goes through the news night and posting a chapter of the book I've been writing and editing for twenty some years.

I had a lovely visit with my Administrator, purely social, no technical work. Then to bed and The Daily Show and Colbert Report. No trouble sleeping.

But this morning when I woke up, I felt awful. And it's cold today. My car won't start. Probably a loose battery wire. I want to work outside, but it's too cold, and windy again. Cyrus won't stay outside without me. And he is unusually watchful. Then it starts to rain. I have to arrange transportation to the doctor. My youngest friend insists. I say I'll take a cab home. No, no, she'll pick me up. She insists.

On the way to the doctor's office it starts to snow. SNOW! I see a female doctor who somehow never makes me wait. When I saw a male doctor, I always had to wait. What's up with that. So, I follow her back to the exam room, with only the unfortunate stop by the scale. I always want to strip at this point. Accuracy is important, don't you think? But I settle for dumping my purse and coat on a chair and the notice my boots, (yes Scarlet, my boots), then think, oh fuck it. Who cares. My clothes still fit. How bad could it be? Well, bad. Twenty pounds bad.

Then we get to the exam part. They always take my blood-pressure first because that's my main problem (all the women die of stroke, all the men, sudden cardiac failure). My oldest brother died at forty five of a massive coronary "event." Gramps, behind the wheel of his new Ford on the road home. Luckily he just slowed down and drove himself into a ditch. My Uncle Linton died in his sleep of heart failure--lucky man. The women have not fared so well in the death department. Strokes, not the big, kill-you-in-a-second kind, but the little ones that creep up on you till you're shitting yourself on a regular basis, and can't tell it's you that stinks.

Well, though my blood-pressure was normal, my heart beat was highly irregular. They insist on an EKG. They do this nearly every time I go in, about once every couple of years, usually for that irregular heart rhythm. And usually they don't show anything abnormal. But this time they do it twice, cause it looks a little hinky. Then my doctor comes in and sits down, she looks up at me and says, "You have an arterial fibrillation. This is the first time it's shown up on an EKG, but I think this has been going on for awhile. Where would you like to go for a cardiac ultra-sound?" So, tomorrow I get an expensive test I can't afford. Then I get to see a fancy shmantsy cardiologist for a consult. It'll be a damn long time before I can afford lemons again.

Reality Again

A break for those of you flummoxed by my literary turn of mind. I need to bitch about the weather. It has been the longest winter in my memory. In all honesty that's not a terribly impressive statistic, since my memory only lasts from season to season, still, it's been horrible. Yesterday was chilly. Yes the sun did shine most of the day, but it's been down into the low thirty degrees most nights. Now today it's hot. Not Texas hot, but from fifty and breezy yesterday, to high seventies and hot today--well it's damn disconcerting. And it's supposed to be in the fifties tonight. Usually we have long slow springs, time to get the yard cleaned up, and a garden space of sorts ready for planting. Not this year. Fuck no. This year we go straight from hard, cold, snowy winter to summer, do not pass go, do not collect anything, not even winter-kill, not even late falling leaves left to rot beneath the snow. And tomorrow? Cold and rainy.

Torture Anyone?

I guess I could talk about torture. That ought to make the men more comfortable. Having just written a little piece about when I was almost four and was raped by a 19 year old friend of my eldest brother's I seem to have scared off the men folk. Truth is this little foray into the heart of darkness of America post WWII, Salt Lake City, Utah--this tribute of mine to the greatest generation and it's family values has just begun, and the easiest part is in the past. It only gets worse from here. So buckle up, it's going to be a bumpy ride.

Oh God, Where Is She Taking Us?

I have heard from a male reader that he is concerned that I am taking him on a trip he finds--how to say this delicately--inappropriate. I could change the subject, go back to writing about politics, or ignore his concern and carry on. But, the truth is, I don't want to lose my male readers. So, what to do? Really, until we move past Pennsylvania, there isn't a hell of a lot to focus on. Yeah, there was the theater of the Patraeus, Crocker show, but it was so predictable that I couldn't get too excited about saying much. Besides all the male bloggers are very focused on the General and the Ambassador. So what's a girl to do? My actual life is too damn uneventful to write about. And frankly I don't care much about China and the Olympics. Until we put our own house in order, what business is it of ours to chastise China for something they did in the 1950's? China is a bully? This is news? Give me a break. My only concern about the Olympics is that a friend of mine is working with one of the news organizations covering the Olympics--she does make-up for the on-camera personalities covering the games, and has had this gig for decades. It's been a fabulous travel opportunity for her. Have powder-puff, will travel. In this way she has made some big bucks and seen the world, racking up some impressive frequent flyer miles. So for her safety I am concerned. Other than that, not so much.

We never seem to care about the real atrocities happening in many parts of Africa. We have turned our backs on the Palestinians--their plight is not in our strategic interests. We have tied ourselves to Israel for better or worse. Nothing much to say about that. It is the third rail of our foreign policy. As one of native American descent, I see the Palestinians in much the same light as I do my own ancestors. But I'm not entirely stupid. It's not real smart to take on Israel.

Catch 22

It’s been a long time since I read Joseph Heller’s masterpiece. But it might be the perfect time to introduce it to a younger generation. After watching the Patraeus and Crocker testimony I keep thinking about Catch 22. We don’t know what victory means, but we’ll know it when we see it. In the meantime, we’ll just keep making the same deadly mistakes over and over in the same old way, and hope for a different outcome. Did you hear it differently? Immediately I thought, Catch 22. It must really exist somewhere in the military bureaucratic code book that is in charge of this SNAFU.

Absolution

Well, it’s true. Confession is good for the soul.

Thanks to those of you who read and have the courage and compassion to comment, I have received some excellent advise and consolation. I called my dear friend. We talked for over an hour and talked about my fear and cowardice, and her love and understanding. We talked about our other friends and we talked about politics. We talked about blogs and the joy I find in this interesting, intelligent community. Now I am relieved of the burden of self loathing and can pick up the pone any time and reach out. Once I get my car running again, I’ll go visit. Worse comes to worse I’ll call a cab. Worse comes to very worse, I’ll start walking her direction and do what I did when I was young and fearless, and stick out my thumb and hitch a ride.

Confessions

My Administrator has returned. Thank God. Now that he’s back home I’ll probably soon be able to link those wonderful sites that inform and teach me, as well as the sites that make me laugh so hard I think I’m going to choke and die. But more important than the rest of you, I will be able to link Linda at Ramblings of an Ageless Hippie Chick. Linda is the source of the Rebel Grrrl Award. My first ever award.

So here’s my confession. While Phillip was over here tinkering around on my computer, I talked incessantly about my life, my prize, my libido, paying no attention to what he was actually doing, I blurted out, “Oh god Phillip, don’t die or anything, I couldn’t get along without you.” Phillip lives in San Francisco and has never met me, but we talk, often late at night. Today when Phillip initiated a “chat,” my neighbor’s dog was visiting, and the odd sound of a man’s voice inside my house must have made Roscoe think we had an intruder. He got into full guard dog stance, straining forward through his powerful shoulders, and barked ferociously at my computer. I had to send him home, so real was his perception that a strange man had entered without even a knock on the door. See how I keep drifting away from this confession? It’s hard to admit when you know you’re a selfish asshole.

I view the threatening mortality of my friends and loved ones as assaults on my own well being. How dare they! Now I’m starting to view my fellow bloggers the same way. E doesn’t know it, but if anything happened to her I’d be devastated. I’m afraid to read back through her past posts to discover the reason for her having to take cortisone. I vaguely remember something about her mentioning needing bone marrow. The possibilities terrify me.

And yet among my own very small circle of fashionista friends one has MS. She is the Devil Wears Prada of our set of retired models. She was our boss. The woman who auditioned us, determined what we wore, and how we moved on the runway during the biggest shows of the season. When we first met her she terrified us all. I worked more closely with her in the beginning and we got to be friends, got together for lunch, had a cocktail after work, and as I got over the initial fear, I never for a second, lost an ounce of respect and admiration for her. When I lived in Santa Barbara, she, of all my friends, was the only one to come and stay with us for a few days. We became the kind of friends who might work and live halfway across the country, but kept in touch.

And now she has MS. Not only that, but her only child, her grown son, was walking home from a restaurant one night this winter when some total stranger stabbed and killed him. I can’t say this without starting to cry. I can’t comfort myself. How could I begin to comfort her? She is getting close to needing a walker and then a wheelchair. And I am not helping her in any way. I rarely call, almost never. And I have only the rationalization that caring for my crazy mother for five years killed every bit of tender mercy I ever possessed. But there is no comparison. My mother who was always cruel to me lost her mind but her body keep going, long after there was anything of “it” left except the eating, excreting, and the flipping of the bird, the lunatic grin, the mean glittery eyes, and her final words, “fuck you.” The day she stopped saying “fuck you” was the day she stopped being able to chew or swallow, no more shuffling up and down the hall, trying to pinch or pull the hair of some unsuspecting passerby. True to her inner self until the end. Three days later she died. Christmas morning about the time Santa would be climbing down the chimney. Thank you Jesus. I felt her hatred from my birth till her death. But despite every therapists advise to turn my back and walk away from her, I just kept trying.

Now I’m so glad it’s over. My life has never been better.

But I’m not ready to face the loss of a woman I really do love. Smart, sardonic, acerbic, kind, generous, well read, funny. In her case it is the body that is dying, by inches, moment by moment. The mind is as brilliant as ever. And she is now isolated by the inability to hop in her car and take herself where ever she likes. Of all our friends, I’m the one with the freedom to visit often, run her errands, hang out. But I don’t call, don’t go. There is no excuse. Last time I saw her I said, “If there’s anything you need or want, just call.” Sometimes even I can hear the bullshit in my words.