I just completed my weekly outing. I am back from the grocery store, and have strawberries to put on my Cheerios, and today I was not the only person bitching about the cost of everything. I, who speak the worst spanish in the world, was able to help an old woman with a nina in tow, try to understand the questions the very unhelpful technician, about to withhold the prescription, was asking her in loud, slow English. Abuela gets the drugs! The Underdog strikes again!
Everywhere I went I found someone holding the thing they wanted or needed and shaking their heads about the cost. We discussed food shortages, and the fear we feel about this government. We talked about resistance and it's costs in this atmosphere. We talked about what we were going to do with our rebate--everyone says, pay back taxes or buy gas. Discontent is rampant. I'm not alone. And all this collective discontent cheered me up immensely. While I was in line waiting I looked at the covers of the tabloids and learned that Hillary has a hot young lesbian lover, lots of photos. Ummm!
I came home to find Chris Matthews trying his best to strangle Obama with his egomaniacal pastor who has gone before the Press Club to give another inflammatory interview. "He's an albatross! He'll kill Obama. Obama's toast now. He's unelectable." And once again I scream at Matthews, "Shut the fuck up you fat-headed asshole! You know jack-shit. You wish and think it makes it so. Childish prick, simpleton!"
I feel ever so much better. My psychologist called and said he'd talked to my vacationing psychiatrist and she'd given the green light to boost me back to my normal dose of antidepressant.
Monday, April 28, 2008
The Wound
I have a mother wound that will not heal
It hemorrhages loss and hope like a cracked pipe
A house haunted like the clean bones that I pull
One by one from the hole in my arm like
Blood from the veins I’ve tried to open
Like the jellyfish of a dream that empties
Me of bones and teeth and blood and anything
To say help me someone I die of starvation
For a little real something that feels like
Love might now slow the draining death
Of my mother’s need to be better than everyone
Include me, stinking, loud, sucking child of needs
It hemorrhages loss and hope like a cracked pipe
A house haunted like the clean bones that I pull
One by one from the hole in my arm like
Blood from the veins I’ve tried to open
Like the jellyfish of a dream that empties
Me of bones and teeth and blood and anything
To say help me someone I die of starvation
For a little real something that feels like
Love might now slow the draining death
Of my mother’s need to be better than everyone
Include me, stinking, loud, sucking child of needs
Sunday, April 27, 2008
The Award Goes To ...
To Stella at swiftspeech, my mentor and friend, who inspired me to go beyond my piddling skills and learn something new. Who keeps her eye on the news sources so she can keep us informed. Stella is smart, generous, and kind to new bloggers. She is warm and intelligent in her comments.
Today she has a post up quoting Tom Hayden, "Why Hillary Clinton makes my wife scream at the television." It is just the kind of news I want to hear--it makes me feel less alone in my screaming at Hillary on TV. And to top it off there is a gorgeous painting atop the post. Stella is a classy broad. This E is for you, Stella, excellent one.
Saturday, April 26, 2008
BP D Continued
Junior high school was my training ground for looking like I had friends, while giving nothing away. I got good grades--always had, I skied well, dressed well, and hung with the edgy kids. I didn't ask questions and didn't answer them. At home I was sullen and angry all the time. I hated my parents and knew I had good reason. But I looked so normal. At night I would roam around throwing rocks at street lamps. I got pretty good with rock throwing, and hiding in the dark.
By now I knew my grandmother was an alcoholic and my grandfather was a pill popping hypocrite bastard. I refused to attend Sunday dinner at their house anymore. My father was a child molester and my mother was a cruel bitch. I could no long hold my hatred and contempt inside. I had been raised by the queen of the eviscerating tongue-lashing. I had mastered that art at her knee. Now I turned this hard won skill on my own family. I never called any of them out, but I could hold my own in any argument. It became the family pastime. At least once a day Maggy would say, "What did I do to deserve this?" And I would roll my eyes.
My third year of junior high, my parents decided I needed to see a psychologist. Who did they choose? A family friend, of course. Bob Johanson was a colleague of both my father and my grandfather. I knew his screwed up kids. I was by now an undeniable beauty, unsettlingly sexy. I used this power and my wit to seduce and play with Bob. Within several months, we were doing lunch instead of doing "therapy." You might think it was a gutsy move on my parents part to put me in therapy--a girl with such volatile family secrets, but actually it was a pretty safe bet. I knew my dad and grandfather had the power to have me locked up in some little private institution. I thought Bob would give them the ammunition they needed. So I got Bob on my side by intellectual sparing and flirting. It worked amazingly well. He told me I was brilliant.
To be continued...
By now I knew my grandmother was an alcoholic and my grandfather was a pill popping hypocrite bastard. I refused to attend Sunday dinner at their house anymore. My father was a child molester and my mother was a cruel bitch. I could no long hold my hatred and contempt inside. I had been raised by the queen of the eviscerating tongue-lashing. I had mastered that art at her knee. Now I turned this hard won skill on my own family. I never called any of them out, but I could hold my own in any argument. It became the family pastime. At least once a day Maggy would say, "What did I do to deserve this?" And I would roll my eyes.
My third year of junior high, my parents decided I needed to see a psychologist. Who did they choose? A family friend, of course. Bob Johanson was a colleague of both my father and my grandfather. I knew his screwed up kids. I was by now an undeniable beauty, unsettlingly sexy. I used this power and my wit to seduce and play with Bob. Within several months, we were doing lunch instead of doing "therapy." You might think it was a gutsy move on my parents part to put me in therapy--a girl with such volatile family secrets, but actually it was a pretty safe bet. I knew my dad and grandfather had the power to have me locked up in some little private institution. I thought Bob would give them the ammunition they needed. So I got Bob on my side by intellectual sparing and flirting. It worked amazingly well. He told me I was brilliant.
To be continued...
And The Award Goes To ...
Anita at anitaxanax, who gives me poetry once a week when I always need it. How does she know just the right poem, just the right Poet? To Anita with the courage to play tag with strangers and trust us all. To Anita with a heart so big she can tell the truth, even when it hurts. Anita, this E's for you, soul sister.
Bipolar Disorder
I have had mental health problems since I was in my early teens. Any of you who have read a chapter or two of my book, Maggy, can probably figure out why. (And for any of you who haven't, it is now posted on it's own site called Maggy.)
At first my problems were attributed to adolescence. I was clumsy, moody, angry, and rebellious. When younger I had been an inquisitive child, talkative and curious. But at eleven I withdrew into my own private hell. I had learned that no adults were trustworthy. And because so much of my childhood was unmentionable, I could not reveal myself to other kids. I trusted no one. And it was during this early adolescence that I withdrew into the world of books.
It was also during this time that I began to disobey my parent's in every way I could. I had not been allowed to attend the Mormon Church. When younger I had occasionally spent a Saturday night at my friend Enid's house and the gone to church with her family on Sunday morning. I did not have to conceal this sneaky business to my parents, since they were never up early on Sunday morning. By the time I got back from church with the Olsons and changed back into my own casual clothes and gone home, my parents were just starting to fix breakfast, having just finished their first Bloody-Mary's. But now I went to the Mormon Church every chance I got--which was often. The Mormon's create a social life for their children that is quasi-religious. So, after listening to a small amount of readings from the Book of Mormon, the socializing begins. There were dances every week, and this became the part of my rebellion I lived for.
It was at one of these dances that I met my first boyfriend. His name was Larry. He was sixteen. I was twelve. This put me at odds with my friend Enid, because her older sister was friends with Susan Graham who had a crush on Larry. I didn't care. I was falling in love.
One night after a dance, Larry walked me home. We talked as we walked and Larry held my hand all the way home. It was dark and the gaslit lamp atop a pole in our lawn was the only light. We stood there by that lamp, talking softly. Then Larry bent down to my upturned face and kissed me on my lips. I did not kiss like a twelve year old. I returned that kiss with my own, lips parted, soft tongue exploring his surprised mouth. Then our door opened and my mother said, rather too loudly, "Get your ass in here, this instant."
The next morning at breakfast my parents started an inquisition that went on for hours. The only detail I remember from this "conversation" was my father's question, "Why do you think a boy sixteen would be interested in you?"
"Because I'm a good dancer. Because I'm smart and nice?"
"No! The only reason a boy his age would be interested in you would be to get in your pants!"
This conversation ended when I ran upstairs and slammed my door.
I kept seeing Larry, trying to prove my parents wrong, but in reality, despite the fact that Larry and I did talk about literature lots, did dance often, he really did want to get in my pants. But it wasn't exactly the getting in my pants that bothered me so much, since my daddy had been there for years. It was his wanting to touch my new breasts that bothered me the most. When Daddy was getting in my pants I had no breasts. So Larry's interest in my breasts seemed most to confirm my parents assessment of my worth. And then Larry got tired of my squeamishness and moved on to girls his age.
To be continued...
At first my problems were attributed to adolescence. I was clumsy, moody, angry, and rebellious. When younger I had been an inquisitive child, talkative and curious. But at eleven I withdrew into my own private hell. I had learned that no adults were trustworthy. And because so much of my childhood was unmentionable, I could not reveal myself to other kids. I trusted no one. And it was during this early adolescence that I withdrew into the world of books.
It was also during this time that I began to disobey my parent's in every way I could. I had not been allowed to attend the Mormon Church. When younger I had occasionally spent a Saturday night at my friend Enid's house and the gone to church with her family on Sunday morning. I did not have to conceal this sneaky business to my parents, since they were never up early on Sunday morning. By the time I got back from church with the Olsons and changed back into my own casual clothes and gone home, my parents were just starting to fix breakfast, having just finished their first Bloody-Mary's. But now I went to the Mormon Church every chance I got--which was often. The Mormon's create a social life for their children that is quasi-religious. So, after listening to a small amount of readings from the Book of Mormon, the socializing begins. There were dances every week, and this became the part of my rebellion I lived for.
It was at one of these dances that I met my first boyfriend. His name was Larry. He was sixteen. I was twelve. This put me at odds with my friend Enid, because her older sister was friends with Susan Graham who had a crush on Larry. I didn't care. I was falling in love.
One night after a dance, Larry walked me home. We talked as we walked and Larry held my hand all the way home. It was dark and the gaslit lamp atop a pole in our lawn was the only light. We stood there by that lamp, talking softly. Then Larry bent down to my upturned face and kissed me on my lips. I did not kiss like a twelve year old. I returned that kiss with my own, lips parted, soft tongue exploring his surprised mouth. Then our door opened and my mother said, rather too loudly, "Get your ass in here, this instant."
The next morning at breakfast my parents started an inquisition that went on for hours. The only detail I remember from this "conversation" was my father's question, "Why do you think a boy sixteen would be interested in you?"
"Because I'm a good dancer. Because I'm smart and nice?"
"No! The only reason a boy his age would be interested in you would be to get in your pants!"
This conversation ended when I ran upstairs and slammed my door.
I kept seeing Larry, trying to prove my parents wrong, but in reality, despite the fact that Larry and I did talk about literature lots, did dance often, he really did want to get in my pants. But it wasn't exactly the getting in my pants that bothered me so much, since my daddy had been there for years. It was his wanting to touch my new breasts that bothered me the most. When Daddy was getting in my pants I had no breasts. So Larry's interest in my breasts seemed most to confirm my parents assessment of my worth. And then Larry got tired of my squeamishness and moved on to girls his age.
To be continued...
Thursday, April 24, 2008
And The Award Goes To......
E at starspangledhaggis who wakes me up with such honesty and fierceness. Whose love and humor for her child’s safe and happy journey fills me with joy. Who faces adversity with funny wonder at the horrors of illness and it’s treatment. For all of this and more, I send you this award. All you have to do is carry it home.

Is This Thing Rigged?
Is it depression creeping up on me, or is it real?
My friend N, who is a retired history professor, and I went to see Where In The World Is Osama Bin Laden? Not a movie I’d recommend on many levels, but I’m no movie reviewer. It did succeed on this level—it made me scared. Scared on a cellular level. There were only three places in all of the greater Middle East that were closed, and unwilling to allow conversation to this crazy New Yorker and his small camera crew—Israel, in the more Hassidic areas, Saudi Arabia everywhere, and the mountainous area of Pakistan where Bin Laden might be living.
Only questions remain. They were posed at the beginning of the film, and it is these unanswered questions that now really scare me. They are all about why we back military dictatorships and/or governments we impose over popularly elected socialists wherever in the world we can. All this has been in the interest of the military industrial complex. Eisenhower warned us of this. And instead, we, since the mid-fifties, in the interest of privatizing everything and consolidating that economic power in the hands of as few as possible, have now turned our backs on our Constitution and Bill of Rights, and are about to give power completely to a couple of families and their cronies. They have their own mercenary army, their NSA. All Hail Skull and Bones.
N thinks McCain will probably win. It is in the interest of power and riches that he win. It is in the interest of ego and ambition that he win. I said, “What if Hillary wins?” He said, “Same foreign policy, same consolidation of power, better economic outcome for the middle class. Maybe.”
“What about Barack?” “I’m worried that both democrats health care plans are run by the insurance companies.”
Reality sucks.
My friend N, who is a retired history professor, and I went to see Where In The World Is Osama Bin Laden? Not a movie I’d recommend on many levels, but I’m no movie reviewer. It did succeed on this level—it made me scared. Scared on a cellular level. There were only three places in all of the greater Middle East that were closed, and unwilling to allow conversation to this crazy New Yorker and his small camera crew—Israel, in the more Hassidic areas, Saudi Arabia everywhere, and the mountainous area of Pakistan where Bin Laden might be living.
Only questions remain. They were posed at the beginning of the film, and it is these unanswered questions that now really scare me. They are all about why we back military dictatorships and/or governments we impose over popularly elected socialists wherever in the world we can. All this has been in the interest of the military industrial complex. Eisenhower warned us of this. And instead, we, since the mid-fifties, in the interest of privatizing everything and consolidating that economic power in the hands of as few as possible, have now turned our backs on our Constitution and Bill of Rights, and are about to give power completely to a couple of families and their cronies. They have their own mercenary army, their NSA. All Hail Skull and Bones.
N thinks McCain will probably win. It is in the interest of power and riches that he win. It is in the interest of ego and ambition that he win. I said, “What if Hillary wins?” He said, “Same foreign policy, same consolidation of power, better economic outcome for the middle class. Maybe.”
“What about Barack?” “I’m worried that both democrats health care plans are run by the insurance companies.”
Reality sucks.
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
My Worth These Days.
I'm worth a lot more than I thought. Maybe I can make a living. Apparently there is a market for geezer sex. I stole this from Every Thing I Love Causes Cancer. She stole it from someone else, and so it goes. Finally something edifying.
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From Hope To Bitterness
I woke up yesterday with Hope. Big time Hope. Now I'm really bitter. Bitter and sinking into the mind killing part of depression. Depression turns your brain into damp cotton. The only thing that penetrates the cotton is rage. So stupid and full of rage. That sounds like a full on case of Bitterness to me. And now my hearts arterially fibrillating up a storm, I'm depressed and bitter, and I can't find old reruns of Lawn Order to put me to sleep. My appointment with the cardiologist isn't until next Wednesday. If I weren't so depressed I could take a book to bed, but you have to be just the right kind of depressed to read--it takes a little concentration to really read. But bitterness and depression makes me want to search out a gun show, so I could buy an illegal gun, go to church, and come home and blow myself away. Worry not. I hate going out so much, that even the desire to put a bullet threw (or is it through?) my brian will have to wait until I'm not so bitter.
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
Busted
God, I hate it when that happens. Vigilante was "kind" enough to point out that I don't know my ass from a hole in the ground. Now I could have said, my ass from a whole in the ground. Or I could say I'm dyslexic, which is almost true, but really I don't know how to spell. Also I don't know when and where to say bear or when to say bare. I'll have to thunk on this some more. I'm sure there are many more such confusions in my vocabulary. Vigilante, with your hep, I'll try to muddle on. In the meantime will you bare(sic) with me?
Depression and Change
I am in despair about the result of the Pennsylvania Primary. I am an old hand at depression and despair. I will survive.
In the meantime I am going to change my blogging life. When all else fails-- change something. So I am starting a blog for my fiction, and this will remain my blog for my political passions and pains. This will be the place I rant and rejoice. I will try to learn a few new tricks. For instance, I'm trying to learn how to do a Blog Roll. I have wanted to learn to link. So this old dog is going to learn some new tricks. It will take some time. Bare with me please.
In the meantime I am going to change my blogging life. When all else fails-- change something. So I am starting a blog for my fiction, and this will remain my blog for my political passions and pains. This will be the place I rant and rejoice. I will try to learn a few new tricks. For instance, I'm trying to learn how to do a Blog Roll. I have wanted to learn to link. So this old dog is going to learn some new tricks. It will take some time. Bare with me please.
At Last
I woke up early to catch all the day’s news—got my latte and took the dog out to pee. After we came back inside, I fed him his breakfast and turned on the boobtube to watch this day’s fascinating coverage of, “Pennsylvania finally votes!!!.” I was asleep within minutes.
I have rather scrubbed my concrete floors on my hands and knees, than pay attention to the parade of fools on TV. This is shocking news, since I took the “seven deadly sins test at the Iguana’s site. My only sin is sloth. I tried to read the NY Times. Not even the Times. There is weak sunshine outside, but this is important, damn it. And it’s the same BS everywhere I look for information. And I have been interested all my life. I started this journey toward the democratic nomination with Hope, god dammit. Now I’m bored. I think I’ll clean the toilet. Then Cyrus and I will go for a walk.
I have rather scrubbed my concrete floors on my hands and knees, than pay attention to the parade of fools on TV. This is shocking news, since I took the “seven deadly sins test at the Iguana’s site. My only sin is sloth. I tried to read the NY Times. Not even the Times. There is weak sunshine outside, but this is important, damn it. And it’s the same BS everywhere I look for information. And I have been interested all my life. I started this journey toward the democratic nomination with Hope, god dammit. Now I’m bored. I think I’ll clean the toilet. Then Cyrus and I will go for a walk.
Saturday, April 19, 2008
Tag, You're It!
Even though I do not know the rules of internet tag, I'm going to try to wing it. As I understand it, I have to write six? was it six? random things about myself. Maybe these things are things I don't talk about much. Little secrets. Frieda Bee wrote six good memories from childhood. Do the things I reveal have to be positive, as in good memories, or just anything, from anytime? Help Frieda, help me now.
1. I have a semi-secret love of South Park. I love those foul-mouthed kids, they remind me of my childhood. The crazy parents, the cross-dressing teacher, the nasty sweetness gets me where I live.
2. When I was seven I charged kids at school five cents to tell them where babies came from. I knew this because my mother told me, in clinical, graphic detail, omitting all the boring "love between two grown-ups who love each other, bla, bla, bla....." So I knew the "He puts his penis in her vagina and stuff squirts out his......... You know the details. Needless to say I got in big trouble at school. My parents thought I was quite enterprising. I made some kids cry with this horrifying info. I bought kosher dill pickles with my sex ed. money from the little store across the street from school and ate them walking home, real happy with my windfall of nickels.
3. My dog eats his own shit. I realize this isn't exactly about me, but still......
4. I have the foulest mouth of any woman I have ever known. I learned all the nastiest words early and have always enjoyed the way they feel in my mouth. I can feign Tourettes Syndrome and scare off strange men who seem menacing to me.
5. Last time I was in New York late one night, I was walking along the street somewhere close to Grand Central Station, smoking a nicely rolled joint. I was wearing a black dress and high heeled boots, just minding my own business, when I dropped my joint. A nice looking young black man coming toward me, noticed that I was bending over feeling around on the sidewalk. He stopped and asked me if I'd dropped my contact lens. I told him I was looking for the joint I dropped, and he put his attache case down and helped me find it. When I picked it up it was out, so I whipped out my lighter, lit-up, and offered him a toke. We stood in the dark and finished the joint, then he said, "thanks, good night," and left. This has been pretty typical of the kindness of strangers. Strangers have never scared me. It was my family that scared me.
6. I used to hitch-hike.
my six taggees:
Scarlet
Phoebe Fay
Liberality
Anita
e. @ StarSpangledHaggis
Gary
1. I have a semi-secret love of South Park. I love those foul-mouthed kids, they remind me of my childhood. The crazy parents, the cross-dressing teacher, the nasty sweetness gets me where I live.
2. When I was seven I charged kids at school five cents to tell them where babies came from. I knew this because my mother told me, in clinical, graphic detail, omitting all the boring "love between two grown-ups who love each other, bla, bla, bla....." So I knew the "He puts his penis in her vagina and stuff squirts out his......... You know the details. Needless to say I got in big trouble at school. My parents thought I was quite enterprising. I made some kids cry with this horrifying info. I bought kosher dill pickles with my sex ed. money from the little store across the street from school and ate them walking home, real happy with my windfall of nickels.
3. My dog eats his own shit. I realize this isn't exactly about me, but still......
4. I have the foulest mouth of any woman I have ever known. I learned all the nastiest words early and have always enjoyed the way they feel in my mouth. I can feign Tourettes Syndrome and scare off strange men who seem menacing to me.
5. Last time I was in New York late one night, I was walking along the street somewhere close to Grand Central Station, smoking a nicely rolled joint. I was wearing a black dress and high heeled boots, just minding my own business, when I dropped my joint. A nice looking young black man coming toward me, noticed that I was bending over feeling around on the sidewalk. He stopped and asked me if I'd dropped my contact lens. I told him I was looking for the joint I dropped, and he put his attache case down and helped me find it. When I picked it up it was out, so I whipped out my lighter, lit-up, and offered him a toke. We stood in the dark and finished the joint, then he said, "thanks, good night," and left. This has been pretty typical of the kindness of strangers. Strangers have never scared me. It was my family that scared me.
6. I used to hitch-hike.
my six taggees:
Scarlet
Phoebe Fay
Liberality
Anita
e. @ StarSpangledHaggis
Gary
Friday, April 18, 2008
Feminism: Have We Come A Long Way, Baby?
I have been a feminist my entire adult life. My mother was one of Utah's pioneering feminists. In the sixties she started the Utah chapter of the National Women's Political Caucus. She was famous for organizing marches and demonstrations protesting the Mormon Church's treatment of women and it's strangle hold on the political life of Utah within the state and in the nations capitol, through it's elected representatives. Maggy won many awards for her work on behalf of women and for giving voice to women's issues. She was the legislative aid to Francis Farley, our first female Utah State Senator.
At one of the award celebrations, sometime in the 1980's, while all these powerhouse women were congratulating one another on the great strides they had made toward equality for woman, I stood and asked the only question of any real relevance regarding the progress that had been made for women--"Why is it that women are making less today in relation to men's pay than they did in the 1940's?" I was not real popular that day. It was not an issue anyone was willing to address when they were so happy to talk about Karen Shephard's election to the Untied States House of Representatives. She served one brilliant term, and then was replaced by the incredibly mediocre Enid Green, the Mormon republican who opposed her. A woman, yes. Progress, no.
So now here we are, almost thirty years later and nothing has changed. Women are still making sixty some odd cents to every man's rapidly shrinking dollar. And now while still making sixty some odd cents to a mans dollar, women have a new hoop to jump through in order to be hireable, and promotable. It is the Beauty Quotient. For an insight into how far we are going backwards, baby, read Naomi Wolf's book, The Beauty Myth.
One last point while we're on the subject--every young woman I meet and then get to know a little, when asked if she is a feminist, says, "No, I'm not a feminist, but I do believe in equal rights for women." Where is the progress in this fear of the label "feminist?"
At one of the award celebrations, sometime in the 1980's, while all these powerhouse women were congratulating one another on the great strides they had made toward equality for woman, I stood and asked the only question of any real relevance regarding the progress that had been made for women--"Why is it that women are making less today in relation to men's pay than they did in the 1940's?" I was not real popular that day. It was not an issue anyone was willing to address when they were so happy to talk about Karen Shephard's election to the Untied States House of Representatives. She served one brilliant term, and then was replaced by the incredibly mediocre Enid Green, the Mormon republican who opposed her. A woman, yes. Progress, no.
So now here we are, almost thirty years later and nothing has changed. Women are still making sixty some odd cents to every man's rapidly shrinking dollar. And now while still making sixty some odd cents to a mans dollar, women have a new hoop to jump through in order to be hireable, and promotable. It is the Beauty Quotient. For an insight into how far we are going backwards, baby, read Naomi Wolf's book, The Beauty Myth.
One last point while we're on the subject--every young woman I meet and then get to know a little, when asked if she is a feminist, says, "No, I'm not a feminist, but I do believe in equal rights for women." Where is the progress in this fear of the label "feminist?"
Thursday, April 17, 2008
The Boys On Hardball
Chris Matthews, right now, is turning our presidential primary campaign into a boxing match. Every description of the most recent democratic debate is turned into some trivia drivel about boxing matches of all the late great match-ups from boxing's history. Apperantly if you don't know your boxing history you can't talk on Chris's show. Kind of leaves the female commentators knocked-out of the conversation. Kind of makes me want to say, "Screw You, Chris!" one more time. I have had a hate/hate relationship with Mr. Matthews for a long, long time.
He was on The Colbert Report the other night and nearly made my heart stop. Colbert asked him if the rumors were true about Matthews making a run for Arlen Spector's seat in the Senate. Chris got all moony and serious. His face softened like a young girls, his eyes glistened with such love, such deep adoration and reverence for......himself, I started dancing. This can only mean one thing. For at least as long as Chris is running for a Senate seat we'll will only have to endure him as a candidate. Hopefully Rachel Maddow on the new show in his time slot called Real Women, will treat him as he has treated guests past. She will ask him a question and just as he starts to speak, she will all but tell him to shut up! Then insist that he answer the question! He will open his mouth to suck in air to speak again, and she will cut him off and then ask Eugene what he thinks of Mr Matthew's inability to answer a simple, straight forward question truthfully, implying that Mr Matthews is indeed stupid and not qualified to be dog catcher.
He was on The Colbert Report the other night and nearly made my heart stop. Colbert asked him if the rumors were true about Matthews making a run for Arlen Spector's seat in the Senate. Chris got all moony and serious. His face softened like a young girls, his eyes glistened with such love, such deep adoration and reverence for......himself, I started dancing. This can only mean one thing. For at least as long as Chris is running for a Senate seat we'll will only have to endure him as a candidate. Hopefully Rachel Maddow on the new show in his time slot called Real Women, will treat him as he has treated guests past. She will ask him a question and just as he starts to speak, she will all but tell him to shut up! Then insist that he answer the question! He will open his mouth to suck in air to speak again, and she will cut him off and then ask Eugene what he thinks of Mr Matthew's inability to answer a simple, straight forward question truthfully, implying that Mr Matthews is indeed stupid and not qualified to be dog catcher.
Quaint Customs and Family Values
Utah is a strange place. And since the Pligs are making such great news and causing such controversy and consternation amongst the various cable news personalities, I thought this might be a good time to weight in with my unique perspective. I get to call my perspective unique because I actually have some first hand knowledge of some real Pligs.
Remember April? Not the month, but the youngest child of a Plig family here in Zion. Trying to sort out the history of polygamist families is damn near impossible—everyone is related to everyone else, when you start looking into their past histories—so I’ll just stick to the current history of the members of this particular family. And “I know” means, have met, sat around a diner table with, and (in some cases) have been and (in some cases) am still friends with. If you think that last sentence is confusing and convoluted, you don’t know a Plig family or have Plig friends.
But before we get to April’s family, I’d like to go on record as being in favor of having all the 400 plus children from the Texas compound who have been placed in protective custody, kept in protective custody. None of those kid’s, if released back into their “families” custody, is going to be safe. Children serve several purposes in Plig society—they are potential breeders (that means when the girls start menstruating they are ready to be married off to some old coot with several other wives—since I started my period at eleven, if I had been a Plig child, I could have been married and cranking out babies at eleven). The boys and the girls not of breeding age are child laborers. They clean the houses, prepare the food, work in the fields, etc. Once boys get to the age when they are interested in girls and such, they are mostly expelled from the colony. These are called the Lost Boys. Salt Lake has lots of Lost Boys.
Now, if you have been watching any of the news coverage of this “situation” you might have seen the “mothers” pleading for the return of their children. “We love our children,” is the answer to any and all questions regarding the safety of these children. When pressed about the age at which it is appropriate for these children to start breeding, the “mothers” change the subject back to “We love our children.” And have you noticed the lack of affect in these “mothers?” They all look lobotomized to me.
I was going to tell you more of April's families history, but I’ve run out of steam. I was going to clean my house today, but that too shall have to wait. This fibrillation thingy is exhausting.
Remember April? Not the month, but the youngest child of a Plig family here in Zion. Trying to sort out the history of polygamist families is damn near impossible—everyone is related to everyone else, when you start looking into their past histories—so I’ll just stick to the current history of the members of this particular family. And “I know” means, have met, sat around a diner table with, and (in some cases) have been and (in some cases) am still friends with. If you think that last sentence is confusing and convoluted, you don’t know a Plig family or have Plig friends.
But before we get to April’s family, I’d like to go on record as being in favor of having all the 400 plus children from the Texas compound who have been placed in protective custody, kept in protective custody. None of those kid’s, if released back into their “families” custody, is going to be safe. Children serve several purposes in Plig society—they are potential breeders (that means when the girls start menstruating they are ready to be married off to some old coot with several other wives—since I started my period at eleven, if I had been a Plig child, I could have been married and cranking out babies at eleven). The boys and the girls not of breeding age are child laborers. They clean the houses, prepare the food, work in the fields, etc. Once boys get to the age when they are interested in girls and such, they are mostly expelled from the colony. These are called the Lost Boys. Salt Lake has lots of Lost Boys.
Now, if you have been watching any of the news coverage of this “situation” you might have seen the “mothers” pleading for the return of their children. “We love our children,” is the answer to any and all questions regarding the safety of these children. When pressed about the age at which it is appropriate for these children to start breeding, the “mothers” change the subject back to “We love our children.” And have you noticed the lack of affect in these “mothers?” They all look lobotomized to me.
I was going to tell you more of April's families history, but I’ve run out of steam. I was going to clean my house today, but that too shall have to wait. This fibrillation thingy is exhausting.
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
The Pope is Ruining My News Day
Can anyone tell me why I have to watch an entire day of Pope stuff? I am not Catholic. Plenty of us are not Catholic. He may be a head of state in a very small way, after all the Vatican isn't really very big, so why does the Pope get to consume the entire prime-time news coverage? I will not go to church, yet I have had to listen to hours of a Catholic church service. I know, I could turn off the TV, but this is a presidential political season and it does interest me. But the Pope? Not so much. This just adds to my already growing bitterness. I knew I felt something really negative about what was going on in this country and finally it has been spoken of and identified, and it really resonates for me. I'm bitter.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
Stormy Weather
Yesterday, the only day of half decent weather we've had this "Spring," I woke up early with vertigo. Had trouble working my way hand over hand to my espresso pot to make my morning bowl of latte. Shakily back to bed to take the small handful of pills that is my first part of the breakfast of champions in Savage land. One cigarette and a few sips of coffee and I did the hand over hand to take Cyrus out for his morning pee. If you are a new reader, please forgive me, Cyrus is my enormous dog, not my husband. No more husbands. Words to live by. Sorry if my anti-marriage sentiments offend anyone, but if you read my profile, you probably understand that I'm only speaking from my own experience and claim no universal truths are told here. I'm not even sure I believe in universal truths, but anyway.
So then I fed Cyrus, and took myself back to bed. A little morning news. Then up and at the computer. But my brain is not working particularly well, so I decide to quit will I'm slightly ahead.
I am still whirling a bit. This could be many things. Dehydration, low blood-pressure, high blood-pressure, allergies, ear problem. I drink a large glass of water, a small swig of olive oil (advise from two smart women) and a glass of orange juice. Back to bed to take my blood-pressure. I rest awhile, wanting to make sure the blood-pressure isn't artificially elevated. (Shut up about the damn cigarette and caffeine.) When I take the blood-pressure it's 190/93, pulse 140, resting. Damn.
I'm thinking, boy am I lucky. I have a doctor appointment tomorrow. We'll just see what the deal is tomorrow. Probably allergies. I take it easy the rest of the morning, reading papers and listening to news. I know, I should probably put music on and really chill, but old habits die hard. (No, no, do not give me any damn lectures).
When my blood-pressure got to be in the normal range, I ate a banana, brushed my teeth, and took Cyrus for a leisurely walk. But it was disconcertingly hot and windy. Since this is the first warm spring day, though it feels like early June, which is lovely in June. I really need to spend some time cleaning late leaves that had been lying under snow, now ringed around the ever hopeful tulips--these can't be raked. I notice that overnight the Chinese apricot has burst into bloom. That's a good sign. But the wind is blowing fiercely and hot. I can smell the leaf mold and little else. Tomorrow is garbage day, so I try to fill the brown can (used for garden waste--only that which can be turned into mulch or bark) then take all three cans to the curb. When I get in the house my eyes are tearing and my nose hurts. Mold and pollen.
The house is hot, even with the windows and door open. I turn on the ceiling fan, and get down to my tank top and yoga pants. And so it goes through the news night and posting a chapter of the book I've been writing and editing for twenty some years.
I had a lovely visit with my Administrator, purely social, no technical work. Then to bed and The Daily Show and Colbert Report. No trouble sleeping.
But this morning when I woke up, I felt awful. And it's cold today. My car won't start. Probably a loose battery wire. I want to work outside, but it's too cold, and windy again. Cyrus won't stay outside without me. And he is unusually watchful. Then it starts to rain. I have to arrange transportation to the doctor. My youngest friend insists. I say I'll take a cab home. No, no, she'll pick me up. She insists.
On the way to the doctor's office it starts to snow. SNOW! I see a female doctor who somehow never makes me wait. When I saw a male doctor, I always had to wait. What's up with that. So, I follow her back to the exam room, with only the unfortunate stop by the scale. I always want to strip at this point. Accuracy is important, don't you think? But I settle for dumping my purse and coat on a chair and the notice my boots, (yes Scarlet, my boots), then think, oh fuck it. Who cares. My clothes still fit. How bad could it be? Well, bad. Twenty pounds bad.
Then we get to the exam part. They always take my blood-pressure first because that's my main problem (all the women die of stroke, all the men, sudden cardiac failure). My oldest brother died at forty five of a massive coronary "event." Gramps, behind the wheel of his new Ford on the road home. Luckily he just slowed down and drove himself into a ditch. My Uncle Linton died in his sleep of heart failure--lucky man. The women have not fared so well in the death department. Strokes, not the big, kill-you-in-a-second kind, but the little ones that creep up on you till you're shitting yourself on a regular basis, and can't tell it's you that stinks.
Well, though my blood-pressure was normal, my heart beat was highly irregular. They insist on an EKG. They do this nearly every time I go in, about once every couple of years, usually for that irregular heart rhythm. And usually they don't show anything abnormal. But this time they do it twice, cause it looks a little hinky. Then my doctor comes in and sits down, she looks up at me and says, "You have an arterial fibrillation. This is the first time it's shown up on an EKG, but I think this has been going on for awhile. Where would you like to go for a cardiac ultra-sound?" So, tomorrow I get an expensive test I can't afford. Then I get to see a fancy shmantsy cardiologist for a consult. It'll be a damn long time before I can afford lemons again.
So then I fed Cyrus, and took myself back to bed. A little morning news. Then up and at the computer. But my brain is not working particularly well, so I decide to quit will I'm slightly ahead.
I am still whirling a bit. This could be many things. Dehydration, low blood-pressure, high blood-pressure, allergies, ear problem. I drink a large glass of water, a small swig of olive oil (advise from two smart women) and a glass of orange juice. Back to bed to take my blood-pressure. I rest awhile, wanting to make sure the blood-pressure isn't artificially elevated. (Shut up about the damn cigarette and caffeine.) When I take the blood-pressure it's 190/93, pulse 140, resting. Damn.
I'm thinking, boy am I lucky. I have a doctor appointment tomorrow. We'll just see what the deal is tomorrow. Probably allergies. I take it easy the rest of the morning, reading papers and listening to news. I know, I should probably put music on and really chill, but old habits die hard. (No, no, do not give me any damn lectures).
When my blood-pressure got to be in the normal range, I ate a banana, brushed my teeth, and took Cyrus for a leisurely walk. But it was disconcertingly hot and windy. Since this is the first warm spring day, though it feels like early June, which is lovely in June. I really need to spend some time cleaning late leaves that had been lying under snow, now ringed around the ever hopeful tulips--these can't be raked. I notice that overnight the Chinese apricot has burst into bloom. That's a good sign. But the wind is blowing fiercely and hot. I can smell the leaf mold and little else. Tomorrow is garbage day, so I try to fill the brown can (used for garden waste--only that which can be turned into mulch or bark) then take all three cans to the curb. When I get in the house my eyes are tearing and my nose hurts. Mold and pollen.
The house is hot, even with the windows and door open. I turn on the ceiling fan, and get down to my tank top and yoga pants. And so it goes through the news night and posting a chapter of the book I've been writing and editing for twenty some years.
I had a lovely visit with my Administrator, purely social, no technical work. Then to bed and The Daily Show and Colbert Report. No trouble sleeping.
But this morning when I woke up, I felt awful. And it's cold today. My car won't start. Probably a loose battery wire. I want to work outside, but it's too cold, and windy again. Cyrus won't stay outside without me. And he is unusually watchful. Then it starts to rain. I have to arrange transportation to the doctor. My youngest friend insists. I say I'll take a cab home. No, no, she'll pick me up. She insists.
On the way to the doctor's office it starts to snow. SNOW! I see a female doctor who somehow never makes me wait. When I saw a male doctor, I always had to wait. What's up with that. So, I follow her back to the exam room, with only the unfortunate stop by the scale. I always want to strip at this point. Accuracy is important, don't you think? But I settle for dumping my purse and coat on a chair and the notice my boots, (yes Scarlet, my boots), then think, oh fuck it. Who cares. My clothes still fit. How bad could it be? Well, bad. Twenty pounds bad.
Then we get to the exam part. They always take my blood-pressure first because that's my main problem (all the women die of stroke, all the men, sudden cardiac failure). My oldest brother died at forty five of a massive coronary "event." Gramps, behind the wheel of his new Ford on the road home. Luckily he just slowed down and drove himself into a ditch. My Uncle Linton died in his sleep of heart failure--lucky man. The women have not fared so well in the death department. Strokes, not the big, kill-you-in-a-second kind, but the little ones that creep up on you till you're shitting yourself on a regular basis, and can't tell it's you that stinks.
Well, though my blood-pressure was normal, my heart beat was highly irregular. They insist on an EKG. They do this nearly every time I go in, about once every couple of years, usually for that irregular heart rhythm. And usually they don't show anything abnormal. But this time they do it twice, cause it looks a little hinky. Then my doctor comes in and sits down, she looks up at me and says, "You have an arterial fibrillation. This is the first time it's shown up on an EKG, but I think this has been going on for awhile. Where would you like to go for a cardiac ultra-sound?" So, tomorrow I get an expensive test I can't afford. Then I get to see a fancy shmantsy cardiologist for a consult. It'll be a damn long time before I can afford lemons again.
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