And thousands wait for relief from Congress to forstal forclosures on their homes.
Thursday, July 24, 2008; Page A01
The homeowners started lining up at 4 a.m. yesterday, some, like Patricia Ephraim, coming for a second or third day.
Thursday, July 24, 2008
The About to Be Homeless
"The Stock Market got drunk, and now it has a hangover" George W. Bush said at a fundraiser in Texas.
And thousands wait for relief from Congress to forstal forclosures on their homes.
And thousands wait for relief from Congress to forstal forclosures on their homes.
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
Might Makes Right
I am linking to the post from The team at Unconventional Conventionist for obvious reasons.
BushCo is the worst administration in American History. As John Oliver 'reported' last night on the Daily Show, "They are the biggest bunch of douche bags and assholes in recorded history!"
BushCo is the worst administration in American History. As John Oliver 'reported' last night on the Daily Show, "They are the biggest bunch of douche bags and assholes in recorded history!"
Monday, July 21, 2008
Thanks Freida Bee
From Freida Bee to me, and back attcha.
Oh how well you know me. I bow before you for this lovely tribute. And for nailing my taste to a tee.
Oh how well you know me. I bow before you for this lovely tribute. And for nailing my taste to a tee.
T Boone Pickens--Oilman
Every time I see T Boone Pickens say "This is one problem we can't drill our way out of," in his ad, I grow ever more convinced even old oilmen know the Bush years and the prospect of McCain years have disastrous consequences for the planet our economy and our country. He promises more ads to come. Shit, anyone with half a brain knows four more years of this crap and we should start looking for a revolution or a run for the border.
Sunday, July 20, 2008
The Contessa
This is an excerpt from a short story I'm working on, published in Savage Stories
Junior saw her the first day of the seminar and made sure to get a seat directly across from her. It was a seminar on the plays of Harold Pinter. Junior was the English Department's only Woodrow Wilson Scholar. He also had a special grant from the Creative Writing Department, so he didn't really need to work. He could be a TA, but why? It cut into his free time. He had a William Morris agent--had since he was eighteen. First story he wrote got published in a collection of the Best Short Fiction, 1966. He's been writing and trying to find a better place to sleep. He doesn't worry about the deadline for a collection of stories, he writes fast. But he does need a place to flop. He also needs some blow.
Junior doesn't have to say a word in this seminar. The famous playwright is teaching. They drink beer together in the afternoon. They laugh together at the foolish things these Mormon kids say in class. They dish babes. The famous playwright has a new lover every semester. He's been married to the same woman almost thirty years. Imagine that. He has a son he doesn't talk about much. The famous playwright likes to gamble.
Junior starts to think of the beauty across from him two nights a week for three hours a night as The Contessa. He starts referring to her as The Contessa. Pretty soon other men are calling her The Contessa. She is the most vocal and confident of the students. She is prepared and perfectly willing to take on the Mormon grad students full frontal. The Contessa makes it easy on the famous Playwright. He only has to get her started and she runs the seminar smoothly. Soon there is a regular Tuesday night beer drinking group that takes the seminar into the late night. She is often there, sitting beside the famous playwright. Her name is Judith, but he finds himself still talking about her when she isn't there, as The Contessa. Judith doesn't seem to see him. He wonders if she's this semester's lover. He also finds out that Judith is married.
One early afternoon Junior pops his head into the famous professor's office on his way out for an afternoon of shooting smack. But his famous friend invites him to go have lunch with him, "My treat," he says. Junior is disappointed that his high will have to be postponed, but smiles and says, "Sure, thanks."
Strangely the famous playwright takes them downtown to a nice little hole in the wall restaurant called, "The Beanery." It's packed. They stand outside and chain smoke, waiting for a table to open up. It takes almost twenty minutes. But once seated, he sees The Contessa walking toward them smiling, with menus in hand. Her hair is twisted into a loose chignon at the nape of her gorgeous neck. She is tall, willowy, graceful, olive skin, dark hair. She's wearing a long skirt and sandals with straps that wrap around her ankles. She has beautiful feet. Is she wearing a bra or not? He's not sure, and so makes a study of watching her across the room. She is flawless and usually a bit aloof, yet now, oddly warm. When she approaches a table she's smiling, she seems patient, bends over a menu to point things out. She makes notes, smiles, turns away, and the smile is gone. What remains is a fierce, strong, beautiful woman in motion. Focus is what you see when she's not smiling. She comes back to take their order and calls them by name, "Junior, Henry, who let you boys out?" The famous playwright beams and says, "It's like a visit to Greece, and then having Melina Mercouri waits on you at a small cafe." She smiles and says, "I think more Anna Magnani, but then, who am I?" Junior blurts out, "You're The Contessa." She looks at him then and says, "Junior have you decided what you want?" He leers at her and says, "I'll have a Rose Tattoo." She turns and says over the shoulder, "Play amongst yourselves, and when you're ready to order food, let me know." The smile is gone.
Junior saw her the first day of the seminar and made sure to get a seat directly across from her. It was a seminar on the plays of Harold Pinter. Junior was the English Department's only Woodrow Wilson Scholar. He also had a special grant from the Creative Writing Department, so he didn't really need to work. He could be a TA, but why? It cut into his free time. He had a William Morris agent--had since he was eighteen. First story he wrote got published in a collection of the Best Short Fiction, 1966. He's been writing and trying to find a better place to sleep. He doesn't worry about the deadline for a collection of stories, he writes fast. But he does need a place to flop. He also needs some blow.
Junior doesn't have to say a word in this seminar. The famous playwright is teaching. They drink beer together in the afternoon. They laugh together at the foolish things these Mormon kids say in class. They dish babes. The famous playwright has a new lover every semester. He's been married to the same woman almost thirty years. Imagine that. He has a son he doesn't talk about much. The famous playwright likes to gamble.
Junior starts to think of the beauty across from him two nights a week for three hours a night as The Contessa. He starts referring to her as The Contessa. Pretty soon other men are calling her The Contessa. She is the most vocal and confident of the students. She is prepared and perfectly willing to take on the Mormon grad students full frontal. The Contessa makes it easy on the famous Playwright. He only has to get her started and she runs the seminar smoothly. Soon there is a regular Tuesday night beer drinking group that takes the seminar into the late night. She is often there, sitting beside the famous playwright. Her name is Judith, but he finds himself still talking about her when she isn't there, as The Contessa. Judith doesn't seem to see him. He wonders if she's this semester's lover. He also finds out that Judith is married.
One early afternoon Junior pops his head into the famous professor's office on his way out for an afternoon of shooting smack. But his famous friend invites him to go have lunch with him, "My treat," he says. Junior is disappointed that his high will have to be postponed, but smiles and says, "Sure, thanks."
Strangely the famous playwright takes them downtown to a nice little hole in the wall restaurant called, "The Beanery." It's packed. They stand outside and chain smoke, waiting for a table to open up. It takes almost twenty minutes. But once seated, he sees The Contessa walking toward them smiling, with menus in hand. Her hair is twisted into a loose chignon at the nape of her gorgeous neck. She is tall, willowy, graceful, olive skin, dark hair. She's wearing a long skirt and sandals with straps that wrap around her ankles. She has beautiful feet. Is she wearing a bra or not? He's not sure, and so makes a study of watching her across the room. She is flawless and usually a bit aloof, yet now, oddly warm. When she approaches a table she's smiling, she seems patient, bends over a menu to point things out. She makes notes, smiles, turns away, and the smile is gone. What remains is a fierce, strong, beautiful woman in motion. Focus is what you see when she's not smiling. She comes back to take their order and calls them by name, "Junior, Henry, who let you boys out?" The famous playwright beams and says, "It's like a visit to Greece, and then having Melina Mercouri waits on you at a small cafe." She smiles and says, "I think more Anna Magnani, but then, who am I?" Junior blurts out, "You're The Contessa." She looks at him then and says, "Junior have you decided what you want?" He leers at her and says, "I'll have a Rose Tattoo." She turns and says over the shoulder, "Play amongst yourselves, and when you're ready to order food, let me know." The smile is gone.
Addictions
I have many habits--some good, some other''s call addictions, and some just plain bad. And if you don't like one of my habits, you call it an addiction. If you share my habit, you call it fun. If you share one of my bad habits, you empathize and understand, and probably share my addictions as well. I'm not saying, so stop holding your breath. My shrink reads my blog on occasion. Just often enough to scare me a little every three months or so.
I have a "fondness" for LawnOrder. Yes, I know, you have no idea what the hell I'm talking about. It's what those, with a vaguely embarrassing fondness, like LawnOrder, call it--a fondness. I don't give a damn about my lawn. But old, oft watched episodes of Law and Order are soothing to me, especially the Major Case episodes with Vincent D'Onofrio, and I never remember how they end when I start watching an old episode. Sometimes I don't even the remember how they end even when they end. Melea makes fun of my addiction to LawnOrder. She makes fun of the acting of guest characters, and she doesn't understand my thing for Detective Goren, who is my type even when he's fat and looks like he smells bad. He's my type and that's enough. I like the actor I will always know as Big from Sex and the City, but I prefer D'Onofrio. I also like the Special Victims unit cast. Mariska Hargitay is, well, sexy, let's face it, even to me, but the barely controlled and scarily cool actor who plays her partner, was once a star of one of my favorite shows from HBO. about a prison--can't remember the name of it, but it was great and Meloni played a very scary guy down in the hole.
If Deadwood was in syndication anywhere I'd be watching it like a real addict. Who were the morons who decided to cancel that? I thought it was the best written show ever. And I loves me some good writing. Great casting, too. Award winning acting as well. Stupid fucking programming executives. I think I'll write a story about a woman driven to murdering an HBO programming executive because he was the stupid little prick who decided to cancel Deadwood. I'll call it Dead Wood.
I have a "fondness" for LawnOrder. Yes, I know, you have no idea what the hell I'm talking about. It's what those, with a vaguely embarrassing fondness, like LawnOrder, call it--a fondness. I don't give a damn about my lawn. But old, oft watched episodes of Law and Order are soothing to me, especially the Major Case episodes with Vincent D'Onofrio, and I never remember how they end when I start watching an old episode. Sometimes I don't even the remember how they end even when they end. Melea makes fun of my addiction to LawnOrder. She makes fun of the acting of guest characters, and she doesn't understand my thing for Detective Goren, who is my type even when he's fat and looks like he smells bad. He's my type and that's enough. I like the actor I will always know as Big from Sex and the City, but I prefer D'Onofrio. I also like the Special Victims unit cast. Mariska Hargitay is, well, sexy, let's face it, even to me, but the barely controlled and scarily cool actor who plays her partner, was once a star of one of my favorite shows from HBO. about a prison--can't remember the name of it, but it was great and Meloni played a very scary guy down in the hole.
If Deadwood was in syndication anywhere I'd be watching it like a real addict. Who were the morons who decided to cancel that? I thought it was the best written show ever. And I loves me some good writing. Great casting, too. Award winning acting as well. Stupid fucking programming executives. I think I'll write a story about a woman driven to murdering an HBO programming executive because he was the stupid little prick who decided to cancel Deadwood. I'll call it Dead Wood.
Deadly Women
No, I''m not talking about the collection of short stories we are gathering. I'm talking about my heart monitor. The damn thing keeps going off. The first day I had it--no episodes. The first night I wore it, it went off three times. It makes a beep when it picks up an "event." Did this wake me up? Hell no. I slept through all three events. It will only hold four events, so in the morning I called it in, which loads the events on my record and then I start fresh. Yesterday during the day, I had three events, so before I went to sleep late last night (really early this morning) I called it in to clear it for the nights events. When I woke up this morning, I noticed that the connecter thingy had come loose and so it could not record my night time events. This morning I'm up to three events, and when I call the monitoring folks in Texas, I have to find out how to sleep with the thing without disconnecting it in my thrashing about in the night.
I have a friend (yes, you bastards, I do have friends) who says she'd rather have a heart attack than wear such a device. Well if we're talking a huge, life ending heart attack, so would I. Unfortunately, it's only the men in my family who get off that easy. The women all have the tiny strokes that eventually turn them into babies who shit their pants and can't speak, but are big enough to break you neck when you try to change their diapers. That is a fate worse than death to me, and short of quitting smoking, I'd do damn near anything to avoid this fate, including taking my own life. So this woman could turn deadly, if she discovers she's having those little tiny bleeds into the brain.
And on that cheery note, I'm going to start another story, where I knock off one more bastard from my past who so richly deserves it.
I have a friend (yes, you bastards, I do have friends) who says she'd rather have a heart attack than wear such a device. Well if we're talking a huge, life ending heart attack, so would I. Unfortunately, it's only the men in my family who get off that easy. The women all have the tiny strokes that eventually turn them into babies who shit their pants and can't speak, but are big enough to break you neck when you try to change their diapers. That is a fate worse than death to me, and short of quitting smoking, I'd do damn near anything to avoid this fate, including taking my own life. So this woman could turn deadly, if she discovers she's having those little tiny bleeds into the brain.
And on that cheery note, I'm going to start another story, where I knock off one more bastard from my past who so richly deserves it.
Lady Macbeth
Something to think about when it comes to Murder Most Foul:
Gail Gilmore
Guiseppi Verdi
Macbeth
Thank you Unconventional Conventionist
Gail Gilmore
Guiseppi Verdi
Macbeth
Thank you Unconventional Conventionist
Saturday, July 19, 2008
Dangerous Women Write
Well Randal, we now have twelve--as of now, a mere eight hours after I said twelve, we have fifteen stories in the collection. Ha! Take that you lazy writers! It was a little over a month ago Dcup and I decided to get this little project going. Well it's going great guns and other weapons. Are you scared yet you XY types? Well you should be. Once you read these stories, you will be looking at you wives in a whole new way. Thanks Ghost for the right song at the right time.
Dead Sound
I hear the sound of falling love
As I wonder where you are
Hits the ground with a dead sound
know you aint got far
You're too stupid and sissy like
To say that you want out
You make the eyes of a million girls
And you think you'll make them shout
Dead Sound
Dead Sound
I hear the sound of falling love
As I wonder where you are
Hits the ground with a dead sound
know you aint got far
You're too stupid and sissy like
To say that you want out
You make the eyes of a million girls
And you think you'll make them shout
Dead Sound
Friday, July 18, 2008
A Moment's Clarity
It's working. I think it's working. Life and energy, and clarity of vision.... Oh god, is this place dirty! As my focus returns, I swear there is actual fuzz. On the objet d'art, there appears to be light brown chick fuzz. No, no I'm not hallucinating, there is fuzz. And every lovely oak surface is dusty. I say this charitably. And it appears I have been eating in bed, as there is a brown stain on the edge of my top sheet that can only be chocolate ice cream. The surface of the kitchen table has smears of butter and a scattering of crumbs and is covered with a neat pile of mail--Melea brings it out and stacks it for me--She is the daughter who seems to love me best. Though it is, perhaps, the fact that she hasn't really seen me at my worst. Oh, she thinks she has, but no, no. She has not seen me at my worst.
I have friends at Face Book, or My Space or however you young people say it, type it. Whatever. Anyway, I have friends. So there Randal. Oh, by the way Randal, do you have an Agent I could borrow? We have a book that needs publishing. Na na, na na, na, na. Anybody have an Agent? We have several stories that I believe have great cinematic potential. And we have a diversity of cultures, ages, and voices. It's a really interesting book, and it's speeding to it's chilling conclusion. Among our writers we have four really great editors and that's a godsend for a good collaboration. Each writer knows what she intends to say. These are damn strong women, overworked and raising families, moving to France in one case. I am the least able editor, and the only writer who spends half her day stretched out in bed, watching any old crap on MSNBC or CNN. This is a shameless admission. Oh well.
So, aside from writing this rather manic gloat, I have changed my bed, washed my laundry, and begun the dusting. I washed two dog bed covers, my towels. Fascinating isn't it. I also got a heart monitor to wear for the next month. Just like a tiny EKG. Then I cleaned my fridge, and went to the grocery store. I thought for a few minutes yesterday, that I might have lost my apatite and would lose some weight, but sadly that's not likely. For dinner, I had three thick lamb chops and fresh, cut from the cob, Texas style, creamed corn--one of my long departed grandmother's delicacies. All in all it's been a good day. And if when you read this, it's complete gibberish, we'll know I'm not tuned up quite right yet.
I have friends at Face Book, or My Space or however you young people say it, type it. Whatever. Anyway, I have friends. So there Randal. Oh, by the way Randal, do you have an Agent I could borrow? We have a book that needs publishing. Na na, na na, na, na. Anybody have an Agent? We have several stories that I believe have great cinematic potential. And we have a diversity of cultures, ages, and voices. It's a really interesting book, and it's speeding to it's chilling conclusion. Among our writers we have four really great editors and that's a godsend for a good collaboration. Each writer knows what she intends to say. These are damn strong women, overworked and raising families, moving to France in one case. I am the least able editor, and the only writer who spends half her day stretched out in bed, watching any old crap on MSNBC or CNN. This is a shameless admission. Oh well.
So, aside from writing this rather manic gloat, I have changed my bed, washed my laundry, and begun the dusting. I washed two dog bed covers, my towels. Fascinating isn't it. I also got a heart monitor to wear for the next month. Just like a tiny EKG. Then I cleaned my fridge, and went to the grocery store. I thought for a few minutes yesterday, that I might have lost my apatite and would lose some weight, but sadly that's not likely. For dinner, I had three thick lamb chops and fresh, cut from the cob, Texas style, creamed corn--one of my long departed grandmother's delicacies. All in all it's been a good day. And if when you read this, it's complete gibberish, we'll know I'm not tuned up quite right yet.
Something For We The People
Send Karl Rove to Jail
I received this in my morning email alerts. Please pass it on. Let's see Karl face a little justice from the Justice Department he has worked so hard to politicize. Executive privilege my ass.
I received this in my morning email alerts. Please pass it on. Let's see Karl face a little justice from the Justice Department he has worked so hard to politicize. Executive privilege my ass.
In My Travels
Yesterday when I was visiting sites I've missed napping as I adjusting to my bipolar drug change, while looking in on Franiam I found her post dedicated to this site and this post. It really resonates for me because I could so easily be homeless. Had I not taken care of my mother in her descent into dementia, and inherited her house, I very well might be homeless. Thanks to what began with the Reagan "revolution," we now have no facilities to care for those who cannot care for themselves. It will get worse. The mortgage meltdown, bank failures, a falling dollar, rising costs and gas prices rising almost daily, we are in deep dodo. I know this isn't news to any of you, but I am old enough to know that prior to Reagan we did not have a "homeless problem." I've talked about this before and not that long ago, but thanks to Franiam, we now have this site to educate us, and make it real in a way nothing else does, short of being homeless yourself. Please read this: Under the Overpass
Thursday, July 17, 2008
Scrambled Brains For Breakfast, Anyone?
This is one of them many things about bipolar disorder that I really, really hate. You're going along thinking you're doing just fine, and then, like a good little patient, you keep your scheduled appointment with your shrink. Not all bipolar patients are as compliant as I, but than most bipolar patients don't live this long. So, there I am bringing her up to date on my situation, and it turns out that the old school anti-depressant I've been doing so very well on is implicated in "cardiac events." It's also implicated in fat, but aren't most of them? Anyway, now I'm doing the Alice in Wonderland bit, where she takes a bite of this, and it makes her really fat, and she take a bite of that, and it makes her disappear. Did you even notice that I disappeared yesterday? Thanks Randal and Beach, at least now I know who my real friends are.
So now my brains are so scrambled I can't read, write, or stay awake long enough to do much of anything. Just as I was going down for the count today, shortly after waking up, I had the foresight to call the one friend I thought might call, and tell her I was taking a "nap," so if she had anything to say to me, say it quick, and then don't wake me up with a phone call, please. I thought of calling my other friend--yeah, I am that popular--but got too sleepy to pull it off. And who doesn't like a good nap, anyway. Well, three or six hours into mine, the phone goes off like a bomb, right next to my head. I come out of my sleep and croak, softly, so as not to hurt myself, "Hello???" When what I really wanted to do was scream, "Who the fuck is this!!!" Well, of course it was my other friend, the one I didn't call to tell I was taking a nap. "She says, "You sound strange, are you alright?" To which I answer, "I'm taking a nap, you woke me up." The second half of that was perfectly obvious, but somehow needed to be said. Then she said, "Well, I'm worried about you, you don't sound like yourself." I just should have said, "I'm not myself. You have the wrong number," but she'd have never fallen for that one. So I said, "I'm not exactly myself, I'm seesawing between two competing drugs, and my brains are scrambled." To which she replied, "Well, you missed Olbermann." The TV was on and sure enough, there was Dan Abrams talking to that annoying twit, Contessa Brewer. Then my friend said, something that sounded like bla, bla, bla. It was all very well intentioned and for my own good I'm sure, but god, how I wanted to sleep on and on into the night. Fortunately, Olbermann gets a second hour following Dan, so the day wasn't wasted after all, but my nap sure was.
If you're thinking I sound like I'm slipping into depression, this is what it feels like, but it probably won't last very long. In the early days of real antidepressant therapy, they just slammed you on a full dose and that was that. Now they treat us like the delicate flowers that we must be, and ease us off one drug as they ease us on another. Me, I prefer the old way. Get it over with quick. But I'm a good little patient, and I follow my doctors instructions.
In the meantime, you will not know who you're going to get, Dr. Jekyll or Mr. Hyde. Good luck, it's bound to be a bumpy ride.
So now my brains are so scrambled I can't read, write, or stay awake long enough to do much of anything. Just as I was going down for the count today, shortly after waking up, I had the foresight to call the one friend I thought might call, and tell her I was taking a "nap," so if she had anything to say to me, say it quick, and then don't wake me up with a phone call, please. I thought of calling my other friend--yeah, I am that popular--but got too sleepy to pull it off. And who doesn't like a good nap, anyway. Well, three or six hours into mine, the phone goes off like a bomb, right next to my head. I come out of my sleep and croak, softly, so as not to hurt myself, "Hello???" When what I really wanted to do was scream, "Who the fuck is this!!!" Well, of course it was my other friend, the one I didn't call to tell I was taking a nap. "She says, "You sound strange, are you alright?" To which I answer, "I'm taking a nap, you woke me up." The second half of that was perfectly obvious, but somehow needed to be said. Then she said, "Well, I'm worried about you, you don't sound like yourself." I just should have said, "I'm not myself. You have the wrong number," but she'd have never fallen for that one. So I said, "I'm not exactly myself, I'm seesawing between two competing drugs, and my brains are scrambled." To which she replied, "Well, you missed Olbermann." The TV was on and sure enough, there was Dan Abrams talking to that annoying twit, Contessa Brewer. Then my friend said, something that sounded like bla, bla, bla. It was all very well intentioned and for my own good I'm sure, but god, how I wanted to sleep on and on into the night. Fortunately, Olbermann gets a second hour following Dan, so the day wasn't wasted after all, but my nap sure was.
If you're thinking I sound like I'm slipping into depression, this is what it feels like, but it probably won't last very long. In the early days of real antidepressant therapy, they just slammed you on a full dose and that was that. Now they treat us like the delicate flowers that we must be, and ease us off one drug as they ease us on another. Me, I prefer the old way. Get it over with quick. But I'm a good little patient, and I follow my doctors instructions.
In the meantime, you will not know who you're going to get, Dr. Jekyll or Mr. Hyde. Good luck, it's bound to be a bumpy ride.
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
I got Nothing, But I have a Friend Who Does Have Plenty To Say To All Of Us Today
The blogger with the French name and who has just immigrated to France, has posted on an online magazine with a great piece about Verdun and WWI. So, without her permission, I give it to you here. Kim is the woman known to us as Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien.
Please go to her site today, and read this piece. It is far better than any of the crap I might give you today. I'm still nursing my many piddling problems. And really, there are days when you just don't have the goods to give. This is one of those days for me. But her post is worth reading for so many reasons. Trust me, have I ever given you bad advise? Well, maybe once. But not this time.
In the meantime, I will be thinking. And mostly about war. War and the crushing poverty and destruction it leaves in it's wake. Honor really should never be a word associated with war. There is so little that could be called honor when killing and blowing shit up is the mission.
Please go to her site today, and read this piece. It is far better than any of the crap I might give you today. I'm still nursing my many piddling problems. And really, there are days when you just don't have the goods to give. This is one of those days for me. But her post is worth reading for so many reasons. Trust me, have I ever given you bad advise? Well, maybe once. But not this time.
In the meantime, I will be thinking. And mostly about war. War and the crushing poverty and destruction it leaves in it's wake. Honor really should never be a word associated with war. There is so little that could be called honor when killing and blowing shit up is the mission.
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
The Tooth Fairy
I need a tooth fairy. For me that would be someone with really good painkillers that don't make me puke and don't cost much. Or a sugar daddy who'd pay for my dental implants. I've been trying to keep my two bottom molars for the last three or four years, and its a serious battle that I can honestly say started in my childhood with tin-can braces and living in a small town miles from any orthodontist. Then the when tin cans come off, every tooth is decayed underneath. Then I get a mouth full of silver fillings, then a tooth dies here, and the lovely one gets a gold crown. Then finally porcelain crowns. And now momma needs implants.
I've been trying for all this time to keep one good chewing surface, and it's a nasty battle. They start to ache and the pain goes down my jaw and into my neck. They feel higher (and not in a good way) so that when my back teeth touch top to bottom it sends a shiver of pain radiating out into my jaw and down my neck. It gives me a headache nothing will cure. And I hear, this kind of thing could end up killing you. Sadly, I'm one of those people that can't take narcotics without a really good anti-nausea drug on board to prevent the unfortunate puking, as I run for the toilet. Oh, I know it's early to be talking about such things, but there you have it. I'm not feeling good.
My handsome dentist, bless his sweet, pretty, blue eyed self, always keeps up with the latest gadgetry in dental marvels. He has a laser drill, that if I had a cavity, would zap it quietly and painlessly--alas, this is not my problem. This dental saga might have ended differently, if I were rolling in dough, or had started life with a different set of parents. All this might have been avoided. But a lifetime of grinding my porcelain crowns, when I sleep, into cracked and splintered nubs, has left me phobic of the next expensive dental horror I face. I'm told I could solve this whole mess with a mouthful of perfectly lovely dental implants for around $30,000. And that's a whole other kind of nightmare. It'll be that, or some ghastly form of dentures. Oh god, old age is a nightmare.
And then, yesterday, when I went to my doctor for my ten day check of the clotting factor, my blood pressure was 180/104, and my blood was like sludge. It oozed from the finger prick and would not drop. So now I have to take it easy, increase my warfarin (sounds just like me--that warfarin woman) take an antibiotic which rips my gut up, something for the nausea, something for the pain, and go back to bed.
These are the vicissitudes of having lived an exciting and adventurous life. Eventually the piper must be paid. Now, I think I'll take the mornings dose of drugs and go back to bed. Have a lovely day darlings.
I've been trying for all this time to keep one good chewing surface, and it's a nasty battle. They start to ache and the pain goes down my jaw and into my neck. They feel higher (and not in a good way) so that when my back teeth touch top to bottom it sends a shiver of pain radiating out into my jaw and down my neck. It gives me a headache nothing will cure. And I hear, this kind of thing could end up killing you. Sadly, I'm one of those people that can't take narcotics without a really good anti-nausea drug on board to prevent the unfortunate puking, as I run for the toilet. Oh, I know it's early to be talking about such things, but there you have it. I'm not feeling good.
My handsome dentist, bless his sweet, pretty, blue eyed self, always keeps up with the latest gadgetry in dental marvels. He has a laser drill, that if I had a cavity, would zap it quietly and painlessly--alas, this is not my problem. This dental saga might have ended differently, if I were rolling in dough, or had started life with a different set of parents. All this might have been avoided. But a lifetime of grinding my porcelain crowns, when I sleep, into cracked and splintered nubs, has left me phobic of the next expensive dental horror I face. I'm told I could solve this whole mess with a mouthful of perfectly lovely dental implants for around $30,000. And that's a whole other kind of nightmare. It'll be that, or some ghastly form of dentures. Oh god, old age is a nightmare.
And then, yesterday, when I went to my doctor for my ten day check of the clotting factor, my blood pressure was 180/104, and my blood was like sludge. It oozed from the finger prick and would not drop. So now I have to take it easy, increase my warfarin (sounds just like me--that warfarin woman) take an antibiotic which rips my gut up, something for the nausea, something for the pain, and go back to bed.
These are the vicissitudes of having lived an exciting and adventurous life. Eventually the piper must be paid. Now, I think I'll take the mornings dose of drugs and go back to bed. Have a lovely day darlings.
Monday, July 14, 2008
Moving Day
Just when I'm getting comfortable with my cozy little place here in the intertubes, my Administrator tells me I need to go public. WTF? I thought this was public.. But no. Not public enough for my Administrator. He has faith in me. Why, you might ask? I'm not really sure, because he hasn't read my "fiction," doesn't read "poetry," and isn't terribly interested in politics--my bread and butter, or cornbread and cantaloupe, to be more accurate. When we were first getting to know each other, in the way one gets to know someone you've never actually seen, I decided to share with him one of my "Aging Barbie" pieces--he hated it. I mean really hated it. He thought I was so full of shit. We argued about it for days.
Another thing he hated about my writing was my "over use of the expletive." He said something like, "You're a better writer than that; you don't need that." Well, honestly, I can barely write a sentence without the swear words. I thought it would be like writing wearing a straightjacket. I should have said, "You hate what I write, how can you say I'd be a better writer?" Well, it turns out, he doesn't really hate how I write, so much as he hates what I write about. "There's a difference?" Yes, Dorothy, there is a difference.
Here's another thing about my relationship with my Administrator--in his world, I'm so dumb, most of the time I have absolutely no idea what he's talking about. ULR? This means something? Some of your sites require registering, and still I don't know how to type my ULR thingy into the required field. I think at Unconventional Conventionist, it still says in my ULR field, "what the fuck's a ULR?" Maybe at Jonestown, too. So, have I come a long way, baby? Not really. Seven months into this adventure and I still don't know what any of the serious smart blogger things are, or how to do them. I can write my daily post, but unlike the rest of you blogging artists, I can't illustrate it, or drop in the perfect clip, or link it, to back up what I say with source material, or photoshopped images, or music clips. I'm an amateur when it comes to the tricks of the trade, and many of you have tried to help me. I thank you all for your generosity and kindness, but I'm the sort of woman who hasn't read instructions since I stopped taking tests in college. So, to translate words in an email into performing a trick like the strike-through, is like pulling a rabbit out of a hat--beats me how it's done. But I do appreciate the magic of it all.
The loveliest thing about my Administrator is his generosity and patience. He has come to understand the way my brain works and doesn't work. Certain things, I'll probably never quite understand. But the beauty of having someone like my Administrator, is that when I'm stuck, and my brain is bipolarly scrambled, he just comes over to my side of the screen and does it for me. Sometimes we Ichat. Sometime we chat voice to voice, and sometimes he just comes right over to my side and takes over the controls and does it for me, while I sit back and watch. Magic! It's nothing short of Magic to me. My dog, Cyrus, thinks my computer is a person, since I spend some time talking to it everyday, and it talks back to me. Roscoe, who I babysit most days, thinks we have been invaded by the invisible man, and barks ferociously when Phillip comes in to talk with me, and has to be put outside for the duration.
All this to simply say, I am now at netvibes. This is an "rssfeed," whatever that means. Nice thing about the new sites, is that they all lead back home, where I'm just getting cozy. But now I'm building a real identity at Face Book, using my real name and all--scary stuff. He insists I should have a My Space page--I thought My Space was for teenagers, but no, Martin Scorsese is there. Who knew? So netvibes it is. Look out world, here I come! Thank god no one can see me.
Another thing he hated about my writing was my "over use of the expletive." He said something like, "You're a better writer than that; you don't need that." Well, honestly, I can barely write a sentence without the swear words. I thought it would be like writing wearing a straightjacket. I should have said, "You hate what I write, how can you say I'd be a better writer?" Well, it turns out, he doesn't really hate how I write, so much as he hates what I write about. "There's a difference?" Yes, Dorothy, there is a difference.
Here's another thing about my relationship with my Administrator--in his world, I'm so dumb, most of the time I have absolutely no idea what he's talking about. ULR? This means something? Some of your sites require registering, and still I don't know how to type my ULR thingy into the required field. I think at Unconventional Conventionist, it still says in my ULR field, "what the fuck's a ULR?" Maybe at Jonestown, too. So, have I come a long way, baby? Not really. Seven months into this adventure and I still don't know what any of the serious smart blogger things are, or how to do them. I can write my daily post, but unlike the rest of you blogging artists, I can't illustrate it, or drop in the perfect clip, or link it, to back up what I say with source material, or photoshopped images, or music clips. I'm an amateur when it comes to the tricks of the trade, and many of you have tried to help me. I thank you all for your generosity and kindness, but I'm the sort of woman who hasn't read instructions since I stopped taking tests in college. So, to translate words in an email into performing a trick like the strike-through, is like pulling a rabbit out of a hat--beats me how it's done. But I do appreciate the magic of it all.
The loveliest thing about my Administrator is his generosity and patience. He has come to understand the way my brain works and doesn't work. Certain things, I'll probably never quite understand. But the beauty of having someone like my Administrator, is that when I'm stuck, and my brain is bipolarly scrambled, he just comes over to my side of the screen and does it for me. Sometimes we Ichat. Sometime we chat voice to voice, and sometimes he just comes right over to my side and takes over the controls and does it for me, while I sit back and watch. Magic! It's nothing short of Magic to me. My dog, Cyrus, thinks my computer is a person, since I spend some time talking to it everyday, and it talks back to me. Roscoe, who I babysit most days, thinks we have been invaded by the invisible man, and barks ferociously when Phillip comes in to talk with me, and has to be put outside for the duration.
All this to simply say, I am now at netvibes. This is an "rssfeed," whatever that means. Nice thing about the new sites, is that they all lead back home, where I'm just getting cozy. But now I'm building a real identity at Face Book, using my real name and all--scary stuff. He insists I should have a My Space page--I thought My Space was for teenagers, but no, Martin Scorsese is there. Who knew? So netvibes it is. Look out world, here I come! Thank god no one can see me.
Sunday, July 13, 2008
I'm Spiderman, Who Knew?
63%
Catwoman
60%
Hulk
60%
Robin
55%
The Flash
55%
Batman
55%
Wonder Woman
53%
Superman
50%
Green Lantern
40%
Iron Man
25%
You are intelligent, witty,
a bit geeky and have great
power and responsibility.
Click here to take the Superhero Personality Test
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