I've Gone And Done It Now

I'm now officially entered in the Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award contest. I could not have done this without Phillip. Just the technical part of the entry form, all the small details of getting every part of the submission process right would have flummoxed me. For Phillip it was easy, despite the disorganization of my "files"--that may be too generous to me to call what I'm storing files. Phillip is one hell of an editor. Too bad he doesn't want to do it, but then I'm amazed anyone wants to do it, since I'm so bad at it.

My little nervous breakdown is coming. There is the period of extreme stress buildup when a deadline is looming. This chance to publish means a lot to me. It's a long shot I know, but I have one goal, one resolution for this year and it's to get published. It may just be a short story. Maybe a poem. But something. So something is now out there. Odd that it's the pitch I have least interest or skill in writing which is the part that will end up determining whether or not the first three chapters are even read. See how awkward and convoluted that sentence is? Is it even a sentence? Oh god. Now I'm filled with fear. Everything depends on the pitch.

I will now collapse on my fainting couch and weep and carry on. Then I'll vacuum. Then I'll come and visit you.

Kathleen, thank you for telling me about his contest and urging me to enter it. Thank you for helping me with my pitch. So many of you have been helping me, I can't name you all, but in the beginning it was Stella who made me think I just might be a writer. It was Vig who took me seriously enough to correct my grammar and spelling. It was Lisa and Lib, Linda and Diva, Naj and Freida. Then it was my friend Susu who read and left me email comments, and the notes of a good copy editor. Then it was LeeAnn who left me emailed notes of an editorial nature, and Larry for a million reasons. God bless the editor in every one of you. I was amazed how many of you read the book and left helpful and encouraging comments. There are so many men who read and left touching and thoughtful comments. I'm talking about you Unconventional Conventionist and you Randal, and you Beach, and you Steve, and you MRMacrum. I'm sure I'm leaving some of you out. I know I am. But I so exhausted I'm shaking. My fingers are jumpy. I've got the jitters.

And you Cal. You, who finished reading just as I took it off the blog. It has been ruthlessly edited--four chapters cut, chunks here and there, the occasional word like "that." Thanks again Phillip for pointing "that" out to me.

Don't feel bad if I haven't mentioned your help.

My Ideal, for Cal

I Could Write A Book

I wish I could edit one quickly and cleanly. Oh well. The work goes on. Obsessive as ever.

Calling You

I keep calling you.

Thinking of You, Frieda of the Bees

Freida of the Bees this song's for you:

Saturday Song

For Tengrain who introduced me to the vocal stylings of Chet Baker:

For Phillip, He Knows Why

Have you written down that dream yet?
I'm waiting patiently at the party for Clooney and Pitt to show.

The I'm Fixin To Die Rag

The Gift That Keeps On Giving

From Cal or Cal's Cat. I'm not sure, but thank you.

Admit it, he did give us a lot of laughs.

Farewell, George Bush

'The vast majority of our imports come from outside the country.' - George W. Bush

'If we don't succeed, we run the risk of failure.' - George W. Bush
'One word sums up probably the responsibility of any Governor, and that one word is 'to be prepared'.' -George W. Bush
'I have made good judgments in the past. I have made good judgments in the future.' - George W. Bush
'The future will be better tomorrow.' - George W. Bush
'We're going to have the best educated American people in the world.' - George W. Bush
'I stand by all the misstatements that I've made.' - George W Bush
'We have a firm commitment to NATO, we are a part of NATO. We have a firm commitment to Europe. We are a part of Europe ' - George W. Bush
'Public speaking is very easy.' - George W. Bush
'A low voter turnout is an indication of fewer people going to the polls.' - George W. Bush
'I have opinions of my own -- strong opinions -- but I don't always agree with them.' -George Bush
'We are ready for any unforeseen event that may or may not occur.' - George W. Bush
'For NASA, space is still a high priority.' -George W. Bush
'Quite frankly, teachers are the only profession that teach our children.' -George W. Bush
'It isn't pollution that's harming the environment. It's the impurities in our air and water that are doing it.' - George W. Bush

=

The Masochism Tango

I am deep in the weeds of the details of fulfilling the requirements for entering this contest. Please forgive my neglect. It will be slim pickings for the next few days. Bear with me. I'll be here working away, wondering why I wait till the last minute to do my homework. God I'm lazy. What a masochist.

Speaking of Cats

Cal, the boy I seduced so long ago, has a cat who sent me an email. Cal's cat is very saucy and she actually talks. See Cal's cat talk to me.

Tagged and Bagged by Susan

Susan of Phantsythat has tagged me for a simple meme. Good thing this is a simple one, as I'm up to my eyeballs in contest falderal. For a woman who writes many hundreds of words a day with no thought at all about the need to put my best foot forward, I'm now paralyzed with insecurity.

But this just might be the palatte cleanser I need to clear my head. So, thanks Susan. I probably really needed this.

The Rules:

1. Go to the 4th folder in your computer where you store your pictures.
2. Pick the 4th picture in that folder.
3. Explain the picture.
4. Tag 4 people to do the same.

This is a photo of my cat Rianna. I know, it's a horrible name for an animal, but she was given to me by a little girl named Rianna, and Rianna named the kitten before she gave her to me. So, Rianna it was. She was barely weened when I got her. A tiny red puffball. She followed me everywhere, like a very tiny dog that looked like a very tiny fox. Rianna was the daughter of a Santa Barbara feral mountain cat--these are the descendants of cats that have been abandoned in the mountains above Santa Barbara where I lived for a blissful while. I used to get phone calls from neighbors that a fox was following me.

Rianna was always a loyal and bonded cat, but she never lost her fiercely independent streak which expressed itself in an aversion to being held in certain ways. She was not a particularly affectionate cat, but when she wanted to be petted she sat on my lap and let me pet her. I say she let me, because petting when not sitting on my lap might elicit a warning claw-retracted slap, and if that warning slap was not enough to discourage the unwanted petting the next slap came with one extended claw and always drew blood. My friends who tried to pet her didn't get the kind warning--they got the one claw treatment. This was how she came to be known as Mean Kitty.

Mean Kitty bossed all the dogs. She was never afraid of a dog, no matter the size of the dog. Where did she get that confidence? My big dog Lucy was so cowed by Rianna that if Rianna was sprawled at the top of the stairs, Lucy could not go either up or down the stairs, and would either whine loudly for my help, or would find me to move Rianna. Rianna was a tyrant. Who could imagine such ferocity in a lovely little red cat? I once saw her chase a large yellow Labrador, that she must had taken a dislike to, out of our front yard. Where did she get that self-confidence?

She lived over twenty years--past twenty I lost count. She moved four times with me in that twenty some years. When we moved from Santa Barbara to Salt Lake she followed close on my heels as I unloaded the car and moved into the little house, trip after trip. She did not settle until I did. What a loyal companion she was. Rianna outlived three of my dogs. She didn't seem to ever like anyone but me.

She was never ill, never injured, always had a hearty appetite and never grew fat. The only reason I knew it was close to the end for her was a dramatic change in morning behavior. The last three or four mornings of her life she waited for me to awake, get my coffee and smoke, crawl back into bed to watch morning news, and then Rianna would crawl into my lap, settle deeply, and then pee on me. This change in behavior was so dramatic I called our House-Call Vet and asked him what he thought it meant. He told me it was a symptom of dementia in a cat. So after days of having to strip my bed every morning and wash all my bedding, I decided to let her go. The Vet came and we put her to sleep, and then into a very peaceful death. She seemed ready to go. But I have missed her terribly. Just looking at the picture of her makes me cry.

Okay taggees get ready:
Dusty
PENolan
YellowDogGranny
La Bellete Rouge

Tuesday Night Movie: Good Dick

Revolutionary Road has three Oscar worthy performances in Winslet, DiCaprio, and Michael Shannon as the truth teller. It is not a bad movie. It's an Oscar movie. It didn't seem like anything new or interesting to me, though.

As a counter balance to good movies of that ilk may I suggest Good Dick. Written and directed by and starring Marianna Palka, it's one of the best American indie flicks I've seen in a long time—not "shot on a cell phone" indie, it's got good production values. It's edgy, smart, and very funny. And a little painful. It also stars John Ritter's spittin' image son Jason. It has a cameo by Charles Durning that is pure money and one of the best "guitar riffing with effects" soundtracks EVAR. The first fifteen minutes of the movie have one song, three different musical interludes, and about three paragraphs of dialog. I think I prefer that to people saying stupid things trying to provide character development. Gran Torino I'm looking at you.

When the boy and girl sit down to watch an Annie Sprinkle video together. Priceless.

I will watch Good Dick again just for the soundtrack and to freak out on the 250 pound Carson Daly look-alike. Some kind of optical illusion, I think.

Now, about the name ....

Tuesday Matinee Movie

This is the best movie I've seen in a long time. Kate Winslet and Leonardo DiCaprio are perfectly cast in this story of 1950's alienation and suburban angst. It might have been written by John Cheever. It was actually written by Richard Yates and competed against Catch 22, by Joseph Heller, and The Moviegoer, by Walker Percy for the National Book Award in 1962 . I read both those books in the 60s and was bowled over by their brilliance. I've never heard of Richard Yeats. This was his first book. It was chosen by Time as one of the 100 best English Language books written since the 1920s. I've read everything by both Percy and Heller. I'm astounded I haven't read Yates.

The move is luscious, and drab. There is this New York landscape inhabited by men in gray suits and hats carrying briefcases. At home in Connecticut there is a discontented wife with a lovely home and two lovely children. DiCaprio plays Frank Wheeler who works for the same company where his father worked unhappily all his life. Winslet, as April Wheeler, has dreams of life in France. She will work and he can "discover" himself. She has done the research. She puts this dream into action and just as they are about to leap free she is trapped by an unwanted pregnancy and her husband's need for safety, normalcy, conformity.

One of the things I remember about the 50's and mid 60s was that in most states contraception was unavailable and abortions were illegal. And mental illness was a very shameful family secret. Kathy Bates has a lovely part as a real estate agent and the mother of a man who is likely bipolar. He was a mathematician before all the shock treatments. He plays the part of the truth teller. I know that role. It doesn't make one popular.

Phillip didn't like the movie. So maybe it's great and maybe it's just another Oscar Movie. But Nick and I loved it. I think remembering the 1950s helps.

I forgot Nick told me when I got in his car that John Updike died today. He was a writer in a class with Cheever, Heller, Percy, Yates.

Biographical Information? Me? Couldn't Possibly!

I have got my pitch together with a lot of help from some of you. I have finally come to the conclusion that there isn't much more I can say in 300 words or less about the novel. I know I'm supposed to be selling a product. I think I've gotten into the spirit of the thing. I think I might have a handle on it now. It's only taken me a couple of weeks. I started out with 750 words or so and cut and cut and cut. Kathleen Maher has been most generous getting me through the worst of it, now under 300 words and just a bit juicy, not too scary, and hopefully intriguing.

But now my task is to write about myself. As myself. Oh god, no! You might think this is funny since I do little else these days, but this has to be focused on me as the writer of this particular book which I am selling as fiction. Can I pull this rabbit out of this hat?

So what are my credentials? Really? Credentials? I have none. This is so sad. I might be one of the best read women in the world, but I have no credentials. I took classes at two universities from the age of 17 to 29 and virtually spoon fed my third husband all the reading he had to do to get his PhD in Creative Writing from the University of Denver. I typed his collection of short stories, and edited them in the process. I read Peyps Diaries to him as we drove back and forth across the country. I swear to god I carried him on my back as we made those endless trips from Arkansas to Colorado over and over while reading aloud from sunup to sundown day after day. But he got the PhD. And happily for me, and sadly for him, he is now still an academic and I write. Ha!

The Little Things You Do That Can Drive Your Mate Crazy

I use the word "mate" here rather loosely. Really it could be anyone who lives with you. But you do things that you don't even know about that can make the person sitting across from you at the breakfast table want to run screaming from the room. Or merely endure it silently while adding it to that mental list of annoying things you do that will one day reach the breaking point, the last straw, the final outrage.

I have TMJ. I've always had it. My jaw pops just talking sometimes. It certainly annoys me, but it annoys me most kissing. And it seemed to annoy past mates most at mealtime. This is just for starters. Are you sure you still like me?

My first husband, Lyle, was appalled that I didn't know how to saute fresh mushrooms. I used my grandmother's wedding present The Joy of Cooking as my source. Irma Rombauer was, according to my grandmother, the only source, the best source, the bible of cookbook gurus. Lyle said the mushrooms tasted like they'd been cooked in scouring powder. I cried. I was nineteen and had never cooked a fresh mushroom before. So to this day, I have never thought of myself as a good cook. But I've never killed anyone with my dreadful cooking, yet.

Lyle was also the first person (but not the last) to accuse me of popping my jaw at the breakfast table (chewing cereal) on purpose just to annoy him. On purpose. Hell, he thought he got a bad deal? I was horrified to find that I was expected to have sex with him. I married him because he was my boss, he was gay, and we partied at the gay bars. We were friends. He was talented and fun and gay. And his Boss hated gay men. Most especially I married Lyle because he was gay. Safely gay. Do I need to stress that again? And he had a good job. And so did I. But that sex thing really ruined it for me.

I can't begin to list the many annoying things that I do, but I'm sure I've slept peacefully next to men who wanted to smash a grapefruit in my face in the morning over poached eggs, toast and coffee.

The last table-atrocity I heard about was from a woman. Her name was Eleanor, I'd known her ages ago, but she needed a place to rent and I needed someone to share the house with. I used four of the eight rooms. She was welcome to the rest of them. She moved some heavy furniture into the house, had her bedroom wired for her vast electronic, computing life. I cooked while she supervised the Comcast guys.

I fed her clam spaghetti, garlic bread, a salad and white wine. Simple enough, not so white trashy as I can sometimes get. But tasty. I was shoveling it in, in my usual fashion and she stopped, wine glass in hand rising to her mouth, and said, rather dramatically, one eyebrow cocked, "This will never work."

"Why?"

"Because you make sexual sounds when you eat."

"What kind of sexual sounds?"

"You moan."

She moved out by the end of the week.

I bet in certain cultures an appreciative moan at the table is considered a compliment to the host.

Skin Hunger

Here's the reason so many old people who live alone have dogs. Cats, too. It's skin hunger. We need touch and we aren't likely to receive touch from another person, so we enjoy the touching comfort of a dog or cat. I have had both pets at the same time and whereas a cat lets you pet her if she feels like it, a dog will lie there endlessly and revel in being petted. And I envy my dog that pleasure. I too would like to be stroked just that way, without need for reciprocation, just for the pleasure of the toucher: kind touch, gentle touch, firm touch, absent minded touch, a hand resting on my head, playing with the strands of hair with no worry that it will turn from a comfort to a need that wants being turned into something more than just touch. Or that I might get up to get a drink of water and in the getting up and walking away insult the person that pets this old cat. I want touch that doesn't require a thank you or come with an IOU.

This isn't just a new thought, or a new need, or something that just occurred to me on a whim. It's something I knew when my last lover and I lived together years ago. He was the dog in that relationship. He loved to be touched just the way I absentmindedly touch Roscoe when I'm baby-sitting him at night when he curls up next to me as I watch TV. I massage his face muscles and gently stroke his neck and soft ears, I rub the loose skin behind his ears and he just soaks it in. When I get tired of this or want him to move, I say, "move." He stands up on the bed, does a quick turn and lies down. There is nothing pushy in his acceptance of my touch or huffy or sulky at my desire to stop. With my ex, touch was almost always prelude to sex. If I were touching him, maybe not. But if he touched me with tenderness and a gentle hand it would almost always be about his desire for sex. I could ask for non-sexual touch, and he might agree, but it was as if he were watching his clock for the minimum ten minutes to pass so he could stop.

I'm probably dreaming. I doubt many men would want to lie in bed next to a woman and stroke her like she were a purring cat and leave it at that. But it's a nice dream.

Advice For The Elderly Embarking On Romance

Ever Since The Inauguration

I can't get this song out of my mind. And it started with the Inauguration. There were exact lyrics from this song said in the inaugural speech. And in trying to find the song on You Tube I was unable to find a decent recording. I googled it and found that both Nat and Natalie Cole had recorded it, but then saw the name DIANA KRALL and that did it for me. I can't embed it because it's a recording session and isn't out yet. Sorry, Tengrain, I know she's not your favorite, so I know what a kindness it was for you to post a clip of her for me. You are indeed a generous man. But for those of you too young to have heard this song, here it is. I knew the lyrics from about age nine or ten. It was a favorite of mine, as well as the Whippenpoof Song.

YouTube doesn't have a clip of Natalie or Nat performing the song, so you'll have to make due with the link. I hope you like it. I'm now going to go see if Itunes has it. Have a lovely Sunday afternoon. It's snowing here, and though I didn't get very far with my cleaning project yesterday, and I'm really inclined to go to bed with a book and then nap the afternoon away, I will clean that last shelf in my food cupboard because this song inspires me rise above my lazy assed instincts and get busy.

I Have A Question

I get in trouble now and then for making assumptions about men. I say things like "Men do this..." Or, "Men think that..." And when I do, my friend Phillip calls bullshit on me. Maybe I should say, "Men my age think this or say that..." But I am a woman with a considerable amount of experience with men, though unsuccessful and mostly unhappy, this experience does form my impressions of men. I know not all men are alike, and that the men I've loved and lived with do not represent all men, but they do all seem to have something in common with men in general. I can hear Phillip groan clear from San Francisco, since he finds such generalizations absurd. And I do admit, Phillip does not fit neatly into any of my male pigeonholes. So perhaps it's time I stopped making statement about men in general and started asking questions instead. Maybe I can say, "it seems to me that the men I have known..." Or, "Is it true that men...?"

Yesterday I wrote about bipolar disorder from my point of view, as a woman with bipolar disorder, and a visitor who always has something stupid and obnoxious to say, commented that it's only women who get bipolar disorder. I cannot quote him precisely, since I almost always delete his comments as fast as he posts them--I have no time or interest in debating anyone that ignorant. But his assumption that bipolar disorder is a female thing raised a point worth exploring. It isn't that bipolar disorder is more prevalent in women than men, (it's an equal opportunity genetic crap shoot) but it is true that men are reluctant to admit to needing help. It is obvious in my group therapy experiences that it's mostly women who are seeking help. It might be that their families have forced this help upon them, and it might be that women are more comfortable than men sharing their feelings in a group, since women are more open about their feelings with their own friends and family than men seem to be--especially men my age.

These men were raised in a time of rigid roles for men and women. Men my age had trouble finding solid footing during the early years of the women's movement, and feminism is still mostly a dirty word to them. Feminism forced many changes on these men. And they did not like what seemed to them a loss of power and control. Rigid rolls are easy to understand. The shifting ground of new ways of thinking and feeling made them uncomfortable, left them off balance, and pissed off about it. Often women in an attempt to rescue a marriage that isn't keeping pace with her needs suggests couples therapy (I've done it myself) and often the answer is a loud and emphatic "NO! You're the crazy one, not me." The reasoning is usually that if a woman is unhappy in the marriage the problem is hers, not his. If therapy can "fix" her, no harm. But if therapy leads her to the conclusion that her marriage is stifling and not meeting her needs, she will probably decide to bail on the marriage. So to a lot of men, therapy ruined their marriages. The fault is not theirs, but the therapists.

So why then do so few men with bipolar disorder seek help? Why are the waiting rooms of psychiatrists around the country filled with women and not men? My theory is that for a man to admit that he is ill or needs help is still seen as weak by other men. Especially if the illness is considered a mental illness. And there is still a large part of the population that has this stereotype about men. Men are still supposed to be strong and stoic, impervious to pain of any kind--physical or emotional.

So tell me you men, what is your reason for not seeking therapeutic help? Are you without problems, without psychic pain, mentally healthy? If you have sought help, has it helped? Inquiring minds want to know.