Special Needs

My dog, Cyrus' Veterinarian is the House Call Vet. He calls Cyrus a Special Needs dog. Those of you who've been reading me for awhile have heard Cyrus' story before, so if you know all this, skip this part. Cyrus was either born in a "shelter" or was dropped off there when he was very young. He's a lovely Rottie mix but spent his first nine years in that "shelter." I put quotes around the word shelter in this context, because there is some question as to whether the woman who ran the shelter was running a legitimate shelter or was just a hoarder and animals were part of what she was hoarding.

At first her house and shelter was located in a suburban part of Tucson. As the number of pets grew, so did the discontent of her neighbors. She was reported to authorities and eventually moved her shelter to an area in the desert about 200 miles from any populated area, and thus it was also 200 miles from a veterinarian or doctor. She was in her late forties when this move happened. Her records were sketchy, so not much is known about the health care or behavioral problems of her animals. When she was in her mid fifties she died suddenly. Her family kept calling and getting no answer or return call. They eventually called the authorities and it was discovered that she was dead and all her animals were in desperate straits. That's when Best Friends stepped in and rescued all her animals.

At this point Cyrus probably got his first real medical attention. He was bathed and groomed, probably for the first time in his life. He was anesthetized and given a thorough going over. His teeth were cleaned and a few extractions were done. It was discovered that he had arthritis in his hips and that one of his legs was at risk of needing an ACL repair. They discovered a thyroid problem. And true to any creature with a thyroid problem he was over-weight. He was ID chipped. He was found to be a sweet natured dog, and with a little socialization was deemed ready for adoption. But Cyrus would need just the right home. Cyrus was depressed.

It's hard to find people who will take an old dog. Most people want a puppy. Or if not a puppy, a well trained one or two year old. But I love old dogs. I'm a bit of an old dog myself. So after many calls and much time spent on the internet, we arranged a day when they were having an adoption event at one of the suburban Petcos. They did not tell me the size or breed of Cyrus. The reason for this oversight is that they had arranged for me to adopt another dog, who, at the last moment, exhibited behavior that make her unadoptable, so Cyrus was a bit of a last minute substitution. And in truth, I think they were afraid I would say no to such an enormous dog with health problems. His medication costs very close to $100. a month. Now I've added supplements to his diet, which brings the monthly pill cost to over $100 a month. This is a wild extravagance, but I would go without cable TV if my budget got that tight, and it is close to that now.

When I first saw Cyrus he looked depressed. In the midst of Petco, surrounded by thirty other animals there for the adoption event, he was lying flattened, head down. The only indication that he wasn't sleeping was the open eyes, tracking the activity. When I told the woman from Best Friends my name, she started crying. She reached across the table and hugged me. "We are so grateful to you. So few people will take an older dog. But you will really love this dog."

Best Friends gave me a two month supply of his meds. and about a weeks supply of his food. They'd had him on Kirkland kibble and mixed it with a bit of canned food to moisten it some. He was on a diet, so I was told exactly how much to feed him twice a day. So far so good. He came with me without any resistance, but I thought right then that Cyrus was a profoundly depressed dog. I had his medical records, complete with dental x-rays and copious notes--all of which has been very helpful to the House Call Vet.

I'm something of a recluse. I have my own mental health issues, and one of them is that I feel slightly agoraphobic when I leave my property. It's doable but I'm never completely at ease out in the larger world. This is probably a result of early abuse. I always preferred to play alone in my room and was forced to go outside to play with other children. Bipolar disorder has probably made this tendency toward agoraphobia more pronounced. But with Cyrus, I felt it was important to take him for a short walk twice a day. He was docile on his leash and would walk with me very nicely. He seemed interested in his surroundings, did a lot of pee trumping, and paid close attention to his environment. He was nice when we passed other dogs out walking with their people. And then one day while we were out, we heard what sounded like gunshot. Cyrus turned and started to drag me back home. He weighs about the same as I, so when he is pulling on the leash, I am the one being led. There is almost no stopping him. I did manage to get him to stop. I crouched down beside his head and talked calmly to him. He was trembling all over. And I then realized that he was not able to listen because he was terrified. We came home very quickly and he has refused to budge from the property ever since. He will go outside to do his dogie business, morning and night, but that's it.

The month of July was a nightmare for Cyrus. I contacted Best Friends and talked with their trainer. She said to put him on Melatonin and sent me an article about dogs with fear problems. We have no idea if Cyrus was ever shot at or if it's just the "normal" fear of a dog who is noise sensitive, but Cyrus and I are two of a kind. Both Best Friends and our House Call Vet have assured me that I have not made Cyrus crazy. Cyrus was raised in a crazy situation. He has lots of face scars so has probably been in some nasty dog fights--too many dogs in a too small area with too little supervision or training. And now if Cyrus is outside for his first pee of the day and has just lifted his leg, and a car off in the distance backfires, Cyrus cuts that stream and runs to the house. He will not go outside under any circumstances if I close the door behind me when we get outside--he simply wheels around and puts his face to the door, waiting for me to open it. In order to get him to go outside, I must go ahead of him, the door must remain open, and as soon as he's done he runs into the house and flops down on his bed.

Our Vet has reassured me that I am probably the perfect person for Cyrus. Cyrus seems happy enough to be in what must seem like a very luxurious kennel here in the little house with me. He has one large dog bed next to my bed and one near my computer table. He and Roscoe (Melea's big yellow Lab) spends three or four days with us when Melea is at work or out for the evening and the two dogs get along swimmingly. Roscoe likes to lick Cyrus' face which sometimes sends Roscoe into an air-humping frenzy.

For the first four or five months Cyrus was with me I never heard him make any noise at all. No bark, no growl. But now if someone comes to my door, Cyrus sits up and barks very authoritatively. So I now have a very large guard dog in the house, and Roscoe is the guard dog that keeps anyone who doesn't know us from entering the property without an escort from either me or Melea.

So the crazy old woman has a crazy old dog and we comfort one another.

Alma, for Anitaxanaxnow

It's almost poetry. For you Anita.

Part 1: The Back Story on " Squirrels In The Attic"

The squirrels have it coming. They started their invasion ten years ago. At least. At first I was preoccupied with other things, but I knew they were there. I could hear them at night. I would awaken at three to hear what sounded like bowling above my head. The chittering of squirrelly pick up lines. The scolding of young. I could hear them in the walls. Finally I worked up the courage to look in the attic and found that they had started tearing the insulation off the attic ceiling and had filled all my best boots with walnuts. And not just content with my boots and shoes, they had started to shred my old paintings. Motherfuckers!

After a month or so of cleaning up the mess they'd made, stripping off the rest of the insulation, sweeping up squirrel nesting sites, bagging over a hundred pounds of walnuts, I set traps. Humane traps. Expensive humane traps-- guilted into it by a friend. And as it turned out she also had a trap. I caught three. Tom had stopped by for a month or so, and while he was here he took the trapped squirrels away to release them elsewhere. Then he was gone, back to Costa Rica. And he'd barely pulled out of the driveway when the next family of squirrels on line for life in the big house moved in.

Then came my mother's final madness and with it my own. So dealing with the squirrels was more than I could handle what with the hallucinations. A year or two of changing the diapers of a eighty something year old infant who weighted more than I, had pushed me over the edge. A woman who fought with all her might to keep her poopie diaper firmly on her dirty butt, and who ran howling through the house and then hid her turds carefully in the dryer, Shhhh, it's a secret--well it captured my imagination and the rest of my senses and all my time. Old black men took up residence inside my head, and they sang (if you could call it that) gangsta rap of the vilest sort--not the sort of thing I had ever liked. I love the blues and these well dressed and dignified old black men looked like Blues Men. Gangsta Rap day and night. But it did drown out the sounds of the squirrels for awhile.

My mother was taken away by a friend of mine to a nursing home that would be, sadly, temporary, the day I went into the luny bin that last time. And when I got out, though I'm sure it didn't actually happen, I felt as if I had been lobotomized. And I suppose in a way I had. I do not remember shock therapy, but I couldn't swear it wasn't part of the treatment. But then wouldn't somebody have to have signed off on it? I did after all call 911 on myself. So wouldn't that be thought of as self-commitment? I remember signing nothing, but once they decided that I was psychotic, maybe they didn't need my permission to do anything. And would I remember shock treatments? Probably not. But when I did come out of the hospital, I was lost in a city as familiar as the map of grief etched on my own sad face. I mean lost close to home. Every trip involved taking a directory and street maps. This is a simple place in which to orient yourself directionally. The mountains are to the east. The Great Salt Lake and the Salt Flats to the west. And once you know that, the rest should just fall into place. I started having to re-memorize my place in this world. And I sunk into a depression I thought was going to kill me.

I was taking Depakote, and Geodone, and Zoloft, and Neurontin. But I was not exactly stable, unless a steady decline is called stable. My progress did all go in one direction. It wasn't so precipitous as to feel like I was tipping over, but each day I lost a little more energy and slept a little more.

The cottony sleep of the profoundly depressed is like the sleep of the enchanted. Like an evil spell cast to make you sleep for a hundred years. And when you emerge to pee and weep and drink some water, it's back to bed you go. I could sometimes hear the squirrels in the attic, but I hadn't the energy to deal in any effective way with them.


This was not intended as the definitive work on the invasion of the squirrels, but ten long years of cleaning up after them, and repairing damage they've done, and not being able to insulate the attic again, because why bother, they'll just tear the insulation down again. All the expensive shoes ruined, all the good winter clothes tossed in the trash after they tore it to shreds, and shit in everything. Do you notice the shit theme that is an undercurrent here? Oh god how I hate those squirrels.

Preparing the Poison as We Speak

What's a technicality like the season, when your poisoning squirrels in the Attic?

Marie Antoinette or Madame Defarge

You be the judge, but I think I more resemble the latter than the former. All I lack is a wine shop and some yarn. I have my knitting needles and have always thought of myself as a character out of a Dickens tale, like A Tale of Two Cities. And what could be more appropriate in this time of enormous contrast between the rich and privileged, and the very poor. All we lack is a gilliotine, and I'm starting to think it's time to bring it back. I'm ready to see some heads roll and I've been making a list. All I need is a front row seat. And yet, I have been given this lovely award--a portrait of Marie Antoinette to hang upon my wall. Hummm. How very revolutionary. Well Marie hold on to your head I'm about to pass you around. So instead of Chimpy's head I'll give Maries to the writers who have shared their own struggles against the Machine that is wealth and greed and gluttony unchecked.

From my lovely friend Liquid Illusion who sends me hilarious email when I'm sobbing and makes me laugh in spite of myself. Miss Liquid is so slippery she can't be categorized. She too may be a little Marie Antoinette and a little Madame Defagre

So to Dcup, who has written very movingly about the hardships of the "Housing Bubble" and "The economic downturn," and the "Credit Crunch" at about the same time John McCain was saying "The Fundamentals of the Economy are Sound"

And to Diva for just about the same reasons. Just as the "downturn" began her Big Soulless Travel Agency laid her off, and in the worst economic climate in my memory she took wings and began her own business. That takes real courage. We are survivors. Would we be this old if we weren't?

And to Freida Bee, for too many reasons to enumerate here, but mainly the poetry in her soul as she contemplates, motherhood, possible bisexuality, mathematics, and whether tis nobler to douche or not to douche. These are the questions.

To Susan she of the gorgeous raven avatar, from whose beak issue forth the most intelligent and thoughtful comments of anyone. Really. I'm quite emphatic about that. She is also an incredible artist and story teller. Go see her. You'll never be the same again. Now all I want to do is go on a cross-continental train trip fifty years ago.

To Non, Je Ne Regrettes Rien because she held her breath and leapt free of this sinking ship at just the right moment and now actually owns her own piece of the French Pie and I'm not talking Quiche

And to Dr. Zaius who just explained the flat tax crap to all of us today and who will probably get the Pulitzer for his groundbreaking work in Economics.

Fire In Paradise

I awoke this morning to news that Montecito is on fire. (The link is in the title.) If Montecito is on fire and the Santa Annas are blowing, it will quickly engulf the canyons and move with lightening speed up the coast into Santa Barbara.

First Love/Last Love (Tom) and I were living in his house at the top of West Camino Cielo in 1990 when the Painted Cave Fire struck. I had been working all day at Robinson's in La Cumbra Mall on upper State Street, a few blocks from San Marcos Pass Road, (highway 154), but had a tennis lesson after work at the tennis courts by Hendreys beach. While on the court, I noticed smoke off in the distance toward the foothills. I immediately cancelled the rest of my lesson and raced for my car. When I got to the base of San Marcos Pass Road, the Highway Patrol had blockaded the highway and would not let me pass. All they would say was there was a fire at Painted Cave on East Camino Cielo (we lived on West Camino Cielo). I told one of the patrolmen I needed to get home to rescue the cat. I didn't mention Tom--I figured he'd rescue himself--but I was worried. The Highway Patrolman told me I could drive up the coast and try the back way in. Which meant taking 101 to Gaviota, then Las Cruces toward the cutback to highway 246 to Santa Ynez, which intersected with highway 154 and was the back way to San Marcos Pass. Another blockade and another Patrolman who refused to let me pass even though I could prove I lived there. He told me the residents living on the roads off the Pass had been evacuated. I turned around and retraced my route back to Santa Barbara. By the time I got back, the fire had come roaring down the canyons and crossed the eight lanes of the coast highway and was burning parts of Hope Ranch which is where Tom's ex-wife and children lived.

The fire moved fast in the Santa Anna Winds, roaring down the canyon, but no one ever thought a fire would cross eight lanes of freeway. I was there just after the fire crossed the freeway heading into town and all of us came to a screeching skidding halt. Cars started backing up and trying to turn. It was chaos. I finally managed to turn and drive back into Golita to find a Motel for the night. I got the last room available. I was there a week. Tom was in Los Olivos. It took us two days to locate each other(this was the world before everyone had a cell phone). He came and stayed with me until we could go back up the canyon to see the damage. Dave the cat was fine.

His ex-wife's house didn't burn, and neither did his house up the mountain. But the trip from home to work and back was a grim, moonscape of ash. There was not a tree, or bush or bit of grass that had survived the fire as it raged down the canyon. It was an arson lit fire. It was the beginning of the end for us as a couple. But that had nothing to do with the fire. Merely the scorched earth that was our relationship.

For Us, Because We're Almost Blue

The New Political Maps of the United States

Things You May or May Not Know About Me

Zack and Miri Make A Porno made me laugh, especially early in the film. It turns rather predictable about half way through. But a laugh's a laugh and there are damn few of them these days, so I take my laughs where I find them. It's not a great film by any means, but will probably become a little cult classic.

But what I loved most about it was that it brought back the memories from my sordid past. I have written extensively about my sordid past in my "fiction." But I have merely skimmed the surface. There are so many unwritten but related stories that just might make another book. I wrote about my brief career as an entertainment impresario of the mildly grotesque, but fascinating phenomenon of male strip shows durning the declining days of Dicso. Randal knows. That story is called Too Damn Big.

Within that story is another story called A Strange Woman. I actually rewrote A Strange Woman and Too Damn Big for Scarlet Blue. I named the female character Judith Blue, trying to get Scarlet's attention. Scarlet is a big warm strong light. She's nice to have around. I envy Fairlane a bit because he and Scarlet are close. But I'm grateful to him that she still has a voice there. I was very disappointed when she closed her site, The Invisible Woman.

Junior is the husband of Judith Blue and he is a professor at South West Missouri State, in Springfield, MO. I even thought the setting might be close enough to Scarlet's actual geographic location. Now I was not stalking Scarlet, exactly, more like throwing myself at her. And it worked for awhile. I think I might have scared her a little when I threatened to slit Progressive Traditionalist's (could there be more of an oxymoron?) throat right there in her living room when he got into a silly pissing contest with me about a short story Scarlet wrote. PT took to counting words to make his point and I pulled my weapon. I think I said something like, "Yo Mamma Motherfucker! Want to step outside?" He called me names. Well deserved and true, but stupidly obvious and completely unnecessary. I took umbrage. Shit happens.

Anyway, this little movie, Zack and Miri Make a Porno, reminded me of all the stories I have yet to write. I have barely begun to plumb the depth of my sordid past.

My Treat

Matinee Movie Thursday.



And we have fresh chocolate chip cookies to munch. Maybe munch isn't the best possible word to use here. I'll get back to you on that one.

I have Baked Cookies with Love and Chocolate Chips

Oh yes I have. Chocolate chips and a cup of butter. UmmmUmm good! I filled a tin and included a little fun surprise. I must be full of the spirit of love as I have summoned a long long distance phone call from First Love/Last Love. Notice how I capitalized that? He was in the plane on the ground In Dallas or Houston, waiting to fly back to Costa Rica for a month. It used to be the other way. He'd fly to the states when he had to get his visa renewed. He's been living in Santa Barbara with his second wife, restoring her house, or so he says. I'm waiting for pictorial proof. Hi Judith. Hi Emily. Your dad and I had a lovely conversation about you. He sounds like a proud and happy father. He says you'll set him up with the pictures and a blogger account so he can comment. I encourage you to do the same.

The point of this little diversion into my past love life, is to prove that there was enough love baked into these cookies to prompt FL/LL to call before flying. I have eaten two of the cookies to make sure they are delicious. I have filled the cookie tin and put it in a box. And tomorrow before I go on a matinee movie date with Nick, I will mail the cookies to Phillip. I do love Phillip, though I have never met him. He is my blog mate and Administrator and taught me everything I know about computing. I know that many of you have tried to help me. But it's Phillip who is the patient teacher. And he can come onto my side of the screen and fix whatever's gone wrong. And in the process he alarms my old dog Cyrus who thinks there's an invisible man in the house.

I'm sorry Phillip, I was an ass. It happens. I wish it didn't. Ask my first boyfriend. He knows what an ass I can be. I don't have great impulse control sometimes and my timing is off. I'd promise never to be an ass again if I knew I could keep the promise, but sadly, I cannot. I didn't mean to hurt you, or piss you off or embarrass you, honestly. I'm thin skinned sometimes in the spaces between being fine and being not fine. And in those moments I blurt out things I wish I hadn't. I hope you'll forgive me.

Lead me on Obama. You know I love it when you talk smart to me.

The election map changes.

Another Gem From My New York Friend

Hilarious account of your shopping exploits. I had to go to the local Fairway (aka embarrassment of riches emporium) a week ago today and aside from being joyfully teary all day my favorite anecdote is as follows:

I am doing the thorazine shuffle through the aisles with my fellow shoppers when I hear a boy ask his mother, "Why do we come all the way here to shop?", "Because," she says, "it's the only store that doesn't make me twitch." I crack up and she catches my eye, "See, she knows just what I mean." she tells her son. Oy.

Anyway - I see that you posted the Obama headline link. Oh how I love that. Makes me tear up still! But here is my current favorite.

Had to share it too.

xo~r

Mormon Controlled Businesses

The title of this post is the link for Mormon Controlled Businesses. Why do they have tax exempt status? Just asking. I found this remarkable link at the lovely Franiam's place. Thanks Fran. I'm like a thief in the night.

Am I crazy? Have I Ever Denied It?

I'm bipolar. Have I said that before? I think so. Probably a bit too often, actually. This is the danger time of year for me to have bipolar episodes. And forcing myself to interact out in the public in a time when I'm already pissed off that the day is gone in so few hours is almost more than I can bear. The actual onset of winter depresses me, and all I really want to do is lie in bed, but stuff needs doing. Not cookie making--I like cookie making. But in this particular point in the season, I grow melancholy. And in the transition from feeling fine to melancholy is a minefield of emotion like sparks and loud noises and lots of other irritable people, forced by the season to spend money they don't have. Property Taxes are due. Thanksgiving is almost here. Then Xmas. Sorry. That's how I feel about the holidays.


I forced myself today to maintain an inner calm and to be as kind to my fellow prisoners as possible. I went out of my way to help an old women (even older than I) find Rebocks at the department store that's going out of business. Then I helped her find someone to ring them up for her. The young woman who rung them up for her was sporting a spectacular display of ink on her neck. I complimented her on the beauty of this body art. And she told me her family owns a tattoo parlor in New Jersey. She proudly told me that she too was a tatoo artist, and showed me the canvas of her arm. A line of impatient shoe buyers formed behind us, so I thanked her and moved on. But I'd have loved to hear her story.

Off to the bra department relatively cheerful. That didn't last long. The cheerful part. Oh I remained kind to my fellow prisoners, but I hate the bra shopping experience and am always shocked by the cost.

Then up to bed linens and another pleasant interaction with a women looking for a particular sized and colored top sheet. Easily accomplished, I found what I wanted and went to the check out desk.

On the way out the door, an alarm goes off and a loud voice comes on the speakers telling me to go to the nearest check stand. It took me forever to find someone to tell me what needed clearing so I could leave this part of the prison that is the entire outside world to me. Life is hell. I don't know how you do it. You have nothing but my respect and admiration.

Then it was off to Big Lots! You can imagine how that went. At this point I was not the only cranky shopper. Lets have a round of scowls now. I did not find what I was looking for, but managed to spend near $100 anyway. Now this is a really bad sign. Spending money you don't have on shopping sprees is one in the constellation of symptoms that makes up the disorder called bipolar. Shopping with abandon is a symptom I can't afford. It's often the thing that brings a person with bipolar disorder to financial ruin and causes great stress and strain on families.

The last straw was the grocery store. Yes, I have what I need to bake cookies, and will do so with love in my heart, but I'll spend the rest of tonight recovering from the tantrums that went off all over the store. Not me, oh no I kept my cool, but children of all ages were having fits and their parents were having meltdowns and it was a bad time all round until I got the check stand. And I was able to do one last good deed for the day. I let the alcoholic lady with the cart full of Junior Mints go before me. She said, "Are you sure?" And I nearly got a contact hangover. But I smiled sweetly, I swear, and said, "It's okay, I'm not in a hurry."

And since I got home a couple of hours ago I've had three visitors. So I haven't had my news fix or my cup of tea. I haven't even unpacked my shopping bags. So for now, the doors locked, I'm not answering the phone and I'm resting.

Morning Light In the Little House and Things To Do

I have been up early finishing some bill paying, a bit of cleaning and list making. I'm getting ready to make my once (I hope) weekly trip to the stores. One of the few department stores I shop at (mostly due to it's close proximity to home) is going out of business--it's a sign of the times. They are one of the few places that sell bedding where you can buy single sheets rather than sets. They're having a sale, and it will be a long damn time before I buy more sheets, so before they close their doors, I will buy one top sheet, two king sized pillow cases, a new bra, some undies, and some winter boots.

While I'm in Sugar House, the location for this particular shopping trip, I'll go to Big Lots, to buy some cookie tins for mailing cookies to Phillip. (Since I have become your cookie making, care-package sending friend, you might want to tone down the snark a tad dear.)

And my last stop, out in the world today will be the grocery store to buy chocolate chips, more flour, more butter, and more organic vanilla for your cookie loving pleasure. Are you listening dear? I'll also try to find a box I don't have to buy to pack this care-package up for shipping.

Once home from this adventure, I'll spend what's left of the day baking cookies and getting Phillip's cookies tinned and packed and taken to Kinkos where they have a Fed Ex center for shipping these cookies to Phillip. So next time you have something harsh to say to me, please remember who bakes your cookies.

Take a Look at This

The link is in the title to this post. This came to me in an email from my smart young friend Rachel, who lives in New York.

Thank You My Dear Ms Liberality

Liberality, my favorite librarian, (sorry Randal--I hardly think of you as a librarian, but more a bon vivant. Must be the monocle) and a librarian who loves her job, unlike some librarians, one of whom I just called a Frenchy name, has been one of the most encouraging of blogging friends. Lib gave me my first award ever. Ever, ever. It felt like it was an Oscar, or a Pulitzer. Go ahead laugh. I don't care. That's just how it felt. Mythic, monumental, as if I had arrived at last. And now she's done it again. At that time I didn't know how to even pick up my award and bring it home--it took days and help from my IT friend to get it home. I knew so little I couldn't link or embed, or label or anything. My site was very primitive and slapdash. But with help from all of you, I'm learning a thing or two. And in this (almost) year of blogging Liberality has given me the bookends of two awards. First was the E for excellence in blogging, and now The Superior Scribbler Award. I can't thank you enough for this, and as I sit here typing, tears pool in my eyes at your kindness and generosity.

Along with receiving an award like this is the responsibility and pleasure of getting to pass it on to some of my favorite bloggers.

Dcup of Politits is the tits. Even before I'd ever heard of Dcup, I used that expression to call something great--"It's the tits." Her site Politits, tickles me just to say it. Like Liberality, Dcup is a wonderful writer and a generous blogger who gives even those we don't agree with the opportunity to share their views in a potentially hostile environment under her sheltering kindness. She's a better woman than I in that respect. She is also a blogger with the soul of a serious creative writer. She will publish a book someday. She may even beat me to it. And she's sensitive enough to know when an email is in order. I trust her to tell me if I've lost my mind and am writing gibberish. Unlike some of you. You know who your are.

Non Je Ne Regrette Rien is my favorite Expat. Her writing is superb despite her disclaimers. And she is chronicling her adventures in remodeling an old house in a village in France. When she gets all the hard work done, we should all drop in. She's doing what I wish I had done when I was young enough to have that kind of courage. She's taking pictures of the process, as well as writing about the details.

Dusty, of It's My Right To Be Left of Center, is one very ferocious political writer. I often look to Dusty to find the story no one else is writing about. And it's always something that needs a closer look. She is a collegial blogger, kind enough to host a site for those of us who want to work on new or ongoing creative projects. And she has great technical skills, and is willing to share her knowledge with those less skilled--like me.

Stella of Swiftspeech was my first reader willing to leave a comment. You can't imagine the thrill of that first comment. Her comments are often so intelligent and insightful they often deserve their own post. She read a bit of my fiction, and compared me to Dorothy Parker. You cannot imagine what a thrill that was. I had never read any Parker, but knew of her reputation as a wit and stature as one of the greats of her generation. Some day I want to gather with these women at the round table at the Algonquin. I'll wear red lipstick for the occasion. See you there Stella.

Diva Jood of Journeys with Jood, our own personal travel agent is also one hell of a political writer and a woman who shares her passion and her pain with us. She was our nominee for President and many of us were counting on her taking us with her to the White House. I had plans to be her Big Chief of the Supreems, but even though we lost this time, we are not giving up our ambitions for the future. And needless to say, we are thrilled with our rival's success. We like change, we like hope. And we will continue to scrutinize our government and try to keep it honest. yes, I am an optimist, and so is Diva Jood. She is a friend of mine. Here's to you Diva!

Linda Sama The Ageless Hippie Chick gave me the Rebel Grrrl Award. This was the validation I'd always wanted and I was 63 when it finally came my way. New to blogging, woefully under skilled in computing sense, and thinking my time was so far past--to find myself finally called The Rebel Grrrl and finally getting an award for it, make me feel hipper than hip. Linda is my fierce and righteous spiritual adviser. I can attest to the wondrous workings of karma. And since I did not skydive, learn to ride a Harley Fat Boy, get a tattoo on my ass before I reached fifty, I felt I was a bit of a fraud as a Rebel Grrrl. But that doubt lasted only a moment.

These are my sisters of the traveling pants.

There are so many other great bloggers that deserve praise and awards, but I can hear the music starting to play and the guy with the hook is waiting in the wings. Besides that, when these five get through passing out awards and they pass out awards, well... You know you'll probably be next. So start working on your acceptance speeches.

Rainy Monday Morning

Check Out This Site

Change.Gov is the best sign of good things to come. I found this link at Big Yellow Forehead's place.

What Stella Said

Stella said...

On behalf of California, I apologize. We have a lot of non-Californians in our state that don't understand our culture and values. Of course I voted against banning gay marriage.

Attorney General Jerry Brown, who was our governor and may be running again in 2010, said that he would stand by the voters' choice, but anyone who got married when the California Supreme Court sanctioned gay marriage would continue to be recognized married. He was against the measure.

Ghost dancing is absolutely correct perhaps the issue of Church-State separation is what truly needs to be examined here. What got voted in were Christian values. Our Founding Fathers were Deists, particularly Thomas Paine, George Washington, and James Madison.

So, I am particularly angered by this proposition and consider the entire matter unconstitutional in violating the Fourth Amendment. The wonderful Margaret Cho stated: I am totally disgusted and furious that now there is a ban on gay marriage in California. So my happiness about Obama is tempered by my anger about Prop 8. Still, we cannot give up on the struggle. This is just a reason to fight harder to make gay marriage legal again. We can overturn the ban. We lost this by such a narrow margin. It was only a few votes. We could take it back.

I feel the same way.

There is already a lawsuit pending by the ACLU and LAMBDA, among others, appealing the vote. Last night, there were 3,000 people in the streets protesting the Yes on 8 win and strong support to overturn this mess: Numerous public figures have spoken out against Proposition 8, including President-elect Barack Obama, Vice President-elect Joseph Biden... It's not over.

And then Stella said this...


Blogger Stella said...

Last decent Republican:

At 85, after a life in politics spanning five decades (he retired from the Senate in 1987), Mr. Conservative has found himself an unlikely new career: as a gay rights activist. While that's not his sole pursuit – he returned to Capitol Hill yesterday to testify in favor of scenic overflights of the Grand Canyon – in recent years he's championed homosexuals serving in the military and has worked locally to stop businesses in Phoenix from hiring on the basis of sexual orientation. This month he signed on as honorary co-chairman of a drive to pass a federal law preventing job discrimination against homosexuals. The effort, dubbed Americans Against Discrimination, is being spearheaded by the Human Rights Campaign Fund, the influential gay lobbying organization.

"The big thing is to make this country, along with every other country in the world with a few exceptions, quit discriminating against people just because they're gay," Goldwater asserts. "You don't have to agree with it, but they have a constitutional right to be gay. And that's what brings me into it."

Her comments were in response to this post by me:


I'm furious that in a moment when we made history by proving to ourselves and the world that we have overcome our racism enough to elect a black President, we want to rescind the civil rights of gay Americans who live in California, a state we like to think of as progressive. I know there were several other states that passed similar measures to prohibit the marriage of gay couples, but they are not states with the reputation for tolerance and inclusion that Californian has. Rachel Maddow pointed out that there were also measures on many states ballots that made the use and possession of small amounts of marijuana legal. But not gay marriage. We are now more afraid of "the gays" having the same civil rights as the rest of America's citizens than we are of the pot smokers. We have a long way to go baby.

I remember a time when it was not legal for a black person to marry a white person in many states. This is no different an issue. It is an embarrassment and shame to all of us that we tolerate this kind of intolerance in our state constitutions.