Normal Rhythm

I'm in normal rhythm. Enraged, but normal rhythm. This is as it should be. My cardiologist is a recent California transplant. He shares my outrage. He can't talk to anyone in his department because they're all republicans. They did an EKG and my rhythm is normal. Then he and I talked politics. It was enormously therapeutic. I wonder how he'll work it into the bill.

So, here's the question. What does she, what does she, the hard working, the hard working white woman with millions of supporters WANT??!!! And so, tell us Hillary what do you want??!!! Are you entitled to anything you want? And, haven't we heard you say in many settings and reported on over and over, your fierce declaration that you will support with all your heart and energy for the nominee, whoever that nominee is.

My cardiologist and I agree that Jim Webb would be a great choice for Vice President.

Fury

I am so angry today I can barely function. I had my reasons for changing my support from Hillary to Barack. This switch happened right after one of the early primary states, and has been reinforced in every primary state since. Now I loathe her. And after last night's insulting performance by Hillary, I am shaking with rage. It is one more reason not to offer her the Vice Presidential spot. Her hubris knows no bounds. She is so convinced she deserves, is entitled to, and has the votes to be the President, it must be so. Well, not so much Hillary. Now she can go fuck herself.

I'm on my way to the cardiologist. It's a check-up to see what needs to be done next and when. I'll bet my blood pressure is sky high today. My anger feels like a bipolar rage--the transitioning from OK to not OK. Hopefully by the time I get back home, Hillary will have come to her senses and backed off making any more demands that she deserves to be Veep. If she doesn't, I hope Barack tells her to go fuck herself.

Barack Wins Nomination But Hillary throws Her Own Victory Party

It's over. Barack won.

But Hillary throws her own victory party claiming she has the popular vote. Hillary tells news sources she is open to taking Veep position despite the fact that it has not bee offered. Hillary gives speech asking her supporters to go to Hillary.com to contribute to her campaign.

Hillary has no honor, no grace, no since of shame or proportion. Hillary has ego. Hillary has a viscous, petty, nasty, drive to get her way, no matter the cost to the party. Hillary believes she is the party and it's owed to her. Hillary has a sense of entitlement that knows no bounds.

Hillary has promised to deliver her supporters no matter who wins the nomination. Hilary claims she wants party unity. Is Hillary a lair?

Dream Team: written five, long, hard months of rancor and last minute ploys to change the rules

I though right from the beginning that Barack and Hillary would be the dream team. When I started this dream I was still a Clinton supporter. I still love the Clintons. My decision to switch my support from Hillary to Barack was not because I grew tired of the Clintons, it was that I grew tired of the press coverage of Hillary, of the prospect of another political campaign with the press bringing up Ken Starr and Newt Gingrich’s greatest hits. The prospect of vitriol and mud slinging on a scale and at a volume we haven’t even imagined yet, makes me weep for what we have become—alienated and cynical. I am tired of the stridency of the press calling Hillary strident. I am tired of the press guffawing about Hillary’s cackle. None of this is Hillary’s fault, and I’m not sure she will ever be able to change the way the old white men who are the political pundits cover her, see her, talk about her.

And then there was South Carolina. I know that the large population of African American’s living and voting in South Carolina gave Barack Obama a slight edge, but what happened there made it possible for me to imagine a different democratic party—a party of unity and change—real change. It was the young people who were so energized by his candidacy that pleased me most. Without them engaged in the political process none of this matters very much—they are our future. Without them knowing the issues that will matter in their lives, this is all a pretty empty process, and they will remain disaffected. So this just might be the first time since the late years of the Vietnam war when young people are going to change the politics as usual we have become so accustomed to. It’s change long overdue.

Buzz

Yesterday it was reported that the Clintons had returned to their home in New York. Staffers had been told to get their expense accounts in order (with receipts) and turn them in by the end of the week. And that the Clintons would be having a large gathering, a party, if you will,--sounds more like a wake to me but what do I know--and anyone on the staff who wanted to attend would get one way airfare to New York for the party. The caveat was, a trip home, or another Clinton event, but not both. One way ticket. Hum. I'd be choosing the trip home to work on my resume, but that's the kind of cold hearted, pragmatist bitch I am.

It is assumed that Barack Obama will have enough delegates at the end of the these two North West primaries tonight, plus the Supers that will come rolling in today, to have the nomination in hand. Some naive pundits have conjectured that part of the reason for the timing of Hillary's big party in New York tonight will be to congratulate Barack and call for Party unity. And I'm thinking "Hell no! That bitch is going to rain on his parade." But I'm a cynic, what else would I think, having watched the Clinton campaign change the goal posts every time she doesn't get the outcome she expected or thinks she's entitled to, and believes she has the power and the political juice to manipulate, to game the system.

Harold Ickes, Hillary's Karl Rove, finally set the record straight this morning after the Associated Press wrote a piece saying Hillary will give a concession speech tonight. Hell no! "She is honoring her loyal supporters, her superb staff, bla bla bla." It is an adoration for Hillary party. Just not enough adoration to pay the airfare home for her loyal staffers. No, Hillary is going to rain on Barack's parade. Way to go girl! This is just another example of the many reasons we have come to loath you. Graciousness is not your long suit. Gamesmanship is your thing. And remind us please, what is it you want? The veep job? To be one of the Supremes? Attorney General? Because your charm is wooing us into wishing some kind of political oblivion for you.

Beware The Flipping of The Bird

My heinous mother taught me many wondrous things when I was very young. How to swear in the most offensive way possible--mostly employing the F-bomb creatively. How to smoke a cigarette like a lady, how to mix the basic cocktails, and how and when to flip the bird. All of this when I was five. I made many adults laugh, cringe, and say "thank you my dear," when I handed them their highball. These early lessons were never unlearned. But I'm beginning to think there might be payback for the bird flipping I employed so effectively on the road. I gave it up once some guy pulled a gun on me from his glovebox as I passed him doing eighty five in a fifty mile zone. But now I have just returned from the nearest Insta-Care where my middle finger was lanced to relieve an abscess of unknown origin. The only good thing I have to report about this experience is the great drugs they prescribed to alleviate the pain this dark red swollen middle digit has caused me. But once that guy pulled his pistol and aimed it at my head as I sped past on his left side, I decided to forgo the momentary pleasure this gesture provided. I don't scream "Fuck You, Moron," anymore, except at home when watching "news" events. So, since I gave up flipping the bird long ago, could this abscess be karmic payback?

By Wednesday

Harold Ickes helped write the rules he now wants to break. They bent the rules pretty hard to give Harold what he wanted. And still he bitched and moaned. He was insulting to everyone and a rabble rouser to the Clinton supporters who were bussed in for the event. Harold Ickes is on the DNC Rules Committee and the rules he wrote to advantage his candidate now have been broken to advantage his candidate. Then he went on Meet The Press and whined some more about the process that he feels is so unfair to the woman who pays his checks.

And all afternoon I watched HRC rack up her huge win in Porto Rico, where they get to vote in the primary, but not in the general election. Big Woop. She has no path to victory unless all the remaining Super delegates go to her, when in fact, they have been leaving her like rats on a sinking ship. As I watched her give her long victory speech last night, the part that grabbed my attention was the big beg for money. Always with the big pitch for bringing in the bucks. I hope the Clinton's had a nice vacation, but now I really don't want to ever have to see them again.

Harold Ickes Makes Me Sick

Harold Ickes was the only real spectacle out of the DNC Rules Committee. Just saying his name makes me gag a little. He has said Hillary Clinton has instructed him to take the ruling today to the Credentials Committee. Big fucking deal, Harold. You've lost, and I hope by your embarrassing performance today, you've lost your job as well. If Hillary wanted reconciliation for the Democratic party, she could have had it today, and maybe a shot at whatever job she wanted, short of Veep. But now, if I were Barack (thankfully for all of us I'm not), I'd tell her to go take a flying fuck. Ickes has just said the Clinton campaign is taking it to the floor of the convention. Now that's the way to get party unity--a brokered convention.

OK Nancy, OK Harry, bring those really big Supers in, and take us home, without our ever having to see or hear Harold Ickes again. Hillary, get your nominating speech in order, maybe that's your consolation prize.

Tennis Anyone?

Two views of the alley directly behind my little house.

Aspen and Star of Bethlehem

This is a view from the back drive by the alley. If you peer through the trees, you can see the outline of the gazebo. This was taken a month ago when the vines on the gazebo had not leafed out.

Old Romantic

My ex, first love, last love, called from LAX last night to say he was headed back to Costa Rica to see his dentist. It's cheaper to fly round trip to have the work done there, than have it done in Santa Barbara where he's been hanging out with his second ex-wife. I am amazed that they have moved past the hating each other faze to the living in the same house together again. Wonder's seem never to cease. He said to watch for a package. And today arrived the package. Two bottles of my favorite perfume, habanita by Molinard. I gave up wearing it years ago, when I stopped flying to big cities in foreign countries with fancy duty free stores at the airports. It was my signature fragrance for all the years he and I were together. We haven't lived together in many years. He has come to visit, usually sometime around my birthday. This gift is an early birthday present. Included with the fragrance was a sheet of yellow legal paper with a note in his unmistakable hand. He says he looks forward to smelling me. Now that's romantic.

Cyrus at Rest

This is my nine year old Rottie/Mastiff/Shepherd mix who spent his nine years in a shelter. This is his first dog bed. He has three of them now, and he hates to leave the house unless it's the morning ritual, or I have a leash in my hand and my hat on. Cyrus loves his little house.

Roscoe is Raped

Roscoe, minding his own business, is assaulted by the amorous Segundo. No arrest yet. Roscoe refuses to press charges, despite the abundant evidence that he did nothing to provoke the rape. This crime took place in my back yard. That's my story and I'm sticking to it.

Utah Savage at Home, Without Words for Once, Cause Dusty Stole My Man Keith

A Happy Ablation to You, Too. Just What I Wanted for My Birthday

Not angioplasty, but ablation. This is the second procedure and will be scheduled when I go to see the Cardiologist next Wednesday. It will require general anesthesia, which is the only part of this procedure that scares me. I don't like to be intubated and all anesthesia makes me vomit. So, other than that, the fact that they ram a laser up your femoral artery to zap a nerve in your heart scares me not a bit. I am perfectly clotted. Not too clotted, and not too clottless. Clotted just right. It's all this clean living. I celebrated by eating ten peanut butter cookies. And chain smoking. Why fuck with what got me this far.

Scott McClellen has made my day, and many to come. Thank you Scott for your gutlessness when it counted. The mothers of more than four thousand dead soldiers will curse you forever. But we, who want to see your ex-boss and all his minions and co-conspirators jailed forever at Gitmo, now have real hope. And John McCain can retire and live off his wife, the beer heiress, until he croaks, which shouldn't be long now.

Time Off

I started blogging in January with really poor computing skills. I resisted getting an internet hook up of any kind, since all I needed my computer for was finishing the book I had roughly written and which sat gathering electronic dust as it awaited the final chapter and another edit or two. I thought being "on line" would be a distraction. I then had a Dell PC I bought five years ago and a good printer, so who needed internet. The only one who did use the internet connection when I last had one, was Charlie, my first and last love. And all Charlie used it for whenever I was around my own place and noticed, was for internet porn.

I have never been one of the women who likes porn in any form. I like movies with erotic content, sometimes scenes from books turn me on, but one woman's erotic content is another's ick! And I have heard women say they like porn. But I have never actually met one. Maybe gay women like lesbian porn, but what is a turn on for the men I've known, pornographically speaking, has never turned me on. It has embarrassed me, bored me, annoyed me, disgusted me, but never turned me on.

I read what was thought to be pornographic by a lot of "good Christian people," the book, Lolita, by Vladamir Nabokov, when I was twelve. It was banned in the States, but was smuggled into the country by thousands of American tourists with taste in 1955, the year it was published in France. My parent's were the first on our mostly Mormon block to actually have read the book the year after it first came out. I read it shortly after they did, by finding it's hiding place in my dad's sock drawer. My dad was a student at the University of Utah working on his PhD in Experimental Psychology. My mother was a working wife too sophisticated for her time. And to me, her only child she was Maggy, indifferent mother. Sometimes even hostile. We had a love/hate relationship, right up until the bitter end.

My father and I had an altogether different relationship. But by the time I read Lolita, it had turned into wholesome by contrast to it's past odd and inappropriate closeness. We were not a typical household, by anybody's standards. Not by any time's. We were a familial aberration. We were perversity personified. My very young life was pornographic. So pornography holds no charms for me.

The novel Maggy is my work of "Autobiographical Realism." My third husband was a writer. A real writer. I asked him early on, before I'd actually read anything of his, what his style was. He said, "Autobiographical Realism." He was a short story writer, finishing his Master's Degree at the U of Utah, on a Woodrow Wilson Fellowship, when I met him. We took a class together. It was a graduate seminar in English Lit. and the only plays I remember reading that summer were Pinter's, so it was probably something like, The Plays of Harold Pinter. I was married to husband number two when I met husband number three, the writer. Anyway, if you asked me what my style as a writer is, I would tell you, "Autobiographical Realism." It could also be called "Memoir."

All this, to say simply, I'm getting my novel finished and posted, cause I have an angioplasty coming up, and don't want to leave it unfinished, and I do want it published, if only on my own blog site, if only for my own egotistical amusement. If only to say to myself, "I have finished it."

Want to talk, leave me a comment. Want to get personal, send me an email. Want to get to know me better, start reading the novel--so far, there are twenty something, or thirty something already posted and linked chapters and in the proper order. Otherwise, I'll see you next week, or when Hillary gives up. Whichever one comes first.

Linda Sama where are you?

Linda you and anitaxaanaxnow have gone AWOL. You two were the way I started my day. Get coffee, take handful of meds., take god (I mean dog) and first perfect cigarette of the day outside for dog to pee, then hit the blogs. Am I an addict? Is this a gateway drug? Then start down my blog roll. And I hate that I can't leave you a message. I hate that I only see you now and then, here and there. You were an inspiration to me. I got my first award from you. Fuck woman, then you leave us with our angst. What happened to solidarity? We would march shoulder to shoulder to Washington to take back our government, to protest the war. Now who will lead us? How about an email with return address?

The Ticket

This is my pick. It balances the ticket in every way. Webb counters the argument that Barack lacks military credentials. Webb is liberal for a Republican and conservative for a Democrat. He has crossover appeal and he reassures the cracker's, the rednecks, the hillbillies, that all important, white, umm, that hardworking white, that rural, gun toting, hard working, whiskey making, I mean boilermaker drinking, hard working white southern, you know who I mean, those nice, hard working, rural, backwoods, white voters.

Gone Sicky

I haven't felt well for a long time. Roughly a month ago I got one possible answer--I am in atrial fibrillation. My resting heart rate is marathon runner's range after a marathon. And my blood pressure starts high in the morning, which makes me feel oddly energetic, and then crashes sometime in the mid afternoon, leaving me fainting and weak. I have what in my grandmother's day was called malignant hypertension. Now they just call it high blood-pressure. Mine was diagnosed in my late teens, about the same time I started experiencing the symptoms of PTSD, anxiety disorder, and severe depression, and then eventually bipolar disorder.

I have been on a huge number of blood-pressure medications over my lifetime. The hypertension is a family trait on my mother's side of the family. But on both sides of my family, it is the heart that finally kills you. It is a family of broken hearts. The men all die suddenly of massive coronary events, going along, feeling fine, and then blam, dead instantly, and in some cases young--my oldest half-brother had his big event in his mid forties. The women in my mother's family have not faired as well--they all have small strokes that eventually leave them with what is called vascular dementia. It is very like Alzheimer's disease. And ends the same way.

My fibrillation which was pretty much asymptomatic, got picked up when I visited my doctor about some routine blood-work that was not great news. Because I have this family history, and am on blood pressure medications, my doctor always checks, and this last time my blood-pressure was so hinky, they did an EKG, which showed the arterial fibrillation.

So with the referral to a cardiologist, I got the full treatment--echo cardiogram (fibrillating like crazy), visit to the cardiologist and another EKG, still fibrillating, a whole array of new medications, a procedure to check for blood clots in the heart (No blood clots) then the paddling several times to try to shock my heart back into normal rhythm. No luck with that, only burns and bruises on my chest and back, and another batch of drugs to get me ready for an angioplasty. So I have a small window of feeling well each day. I start the day feeling well enough to write, brain seems to be in order, but by mid-afternoon I start to crash. My brain stops working so well, I begin to feel like I might faint, so I work my way across the room to my bed and after taking my afternoon hand-full of meds., I gradually begin to come back to physical functioning, but my brain doesn't work as well. So learning things is more difficult. I have been trying to learn to link, so I can become a full-fledged, functioning member of the smart, savvy blogging community.

I only started blogging in January, and did not have great computer skills to begin with. I have a wonderful Administrator who has been kind enough to teach me what I've been able to learn, and who has tricked out my blog, so my creative writing sites are linked and the chapters of my book, Maggy, are linked and the book can be read chapter after horrifying chapter. But he's been trying to teach me to do these things for myself, to make me less dependent, more skilled. I worry that he will give up on me, since I learn so slowly the simple things he has so patiently been trying to teach me. Nothing new seems to stick in my brain. I want to make him a lovely care package to thank him for the time, the patience, the friendship and generosity, but I don't feel well enough to venture out and get the tin for the two kinds of homemade cookies he craves. It will all work out, one way or another. But for the time being I will remain merely a writer with no tricks up my sleeve, and settle for editing the final chapters of the book in preparation for learning how to post and link them.

And if I get boring in this period of brainlessness, I can only hope you will seek entertainment by reading the book, leaving me breadcrumbs to let me know you've stopped by.

Weeds

Dandelions have taken over my parking strip in front of the house. I mow and two days later the dandelions have grown six inches, and the lawn looks worse than before I mowed. So today I'm out there on my knees making bruises in my palms trying to dig dandelions from the dry, yes dry, hard clay that is our dirt here in northern Utah. Despite three days of cold rain, my lawn is bone dry because of all the shade trees. Shade is important when you don't have central air conditioning. Besides, I'd rather live in a forest, if I can't have ocean and beach, than a sunny expanse of lawn that must be watered and weeded constantly. I have refused to install a sprinkler system and water the old fashioned way, by hauling the hose around and setting the lawn-bird to get just what I'm aiming for. I have friends who spend half the summer repairing broken sprinkler heads due to running over them with a lawnmower. Fuck that I say. I'd rather keep just the trees and flower beds alive. And when the lawn has finally died, I'll Xerisscape the whole damn thing--nothing but shade loving Vinca major. Saves water and requires almost no care.

My only contact with the world of politics today is reading your comments and blogs. Oh, and I did watch Meet the Press, but can't remember a damn thing. Must be all those years of pot smoking. I can remember things from the long dead past, but not so much the short term. Which might explain why I'm having so much trouble learning how to Link.