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Saturday, April 10, 2010
And You Thought You Knew Everything About Me
I wrote this early in 2009. Here's the link to the original; I think the comments are as funny as anything I wrote here. A word of warning. You might not respect me once you read this.
I think farts are hilarious. And the reaction of humans and their farting behavior is also hilarious. I have female friends who have been married serially and once for a real long time who claim to have never let one rip in front of the hubby. I think that's insane. But in doing an informal and not quite scientific study have found an alarming number of women who just don't get the humor of retaliatory farting.
I'm also a fan of the fart machine. Especially the fart machine with a remote control.
My longtime (and recurring) ex and I used to take the fart machine to the Symphony. I would slip it in my elegant Armani pants pocket and he would use the remote control. You might think this sexist--giving him all the power, but I beg to disagree. The farter is always the one with the real power. The one with the remote just gives the farter the power at the moment of maximum discomfort for the people around the farter, thus bestowing great comedic power on the farter. Innocence feigned is best in situations like that. The elegantly dressed female farter going round the nosh table at intermission in the important peoples room, the big contributors room at intermission of the symphony is one of my favorite comedic moments. I lean in next to a women who is more than likeley wearing magic underwear and has her Temple Recommend in good order and Tom hits the button on the remote control and out comes a two or three tone blast of a sound that is none other than a fart. I slit my eyes at the matron in the gold lame and quickly look away and her face turns scarlet. My eyes are watering with suppressed laughter. I put two fingers to my nose and pinch it gently. I roll my watering eyes at the man behind me as I slit my eyes toward the unfortunate matron ahead of me. He smiles involuntarily. And I leave the table with a couple of cookies on a napkin to take to Tom.
We sit for a second and laugh decorously. A man sits next to me after we regain our composure and Tom gives the remote control two hits of the button. One long bleating fart and then a very loud single note blast. Tom and I move two seats away from the man and then we lean out to look at him. He turns his head away in shame. And so it goes. I do one trip completely around the table farting gayly every time I reach for something. I stuff my face and giggle as I fart my way around the table. I'm amazed no one ever had to do the Heimlich maneuver on me. Then the bell rings and intermission is over. I am doubled over with laughter as we take our seats for the second act.
I have so many heinous stories of farting this will have to become a series. Tom once smacked me for farting most foul in the bed. He started it, so my retaliation seemed quite reasonable to me. I did not cotton to the double standard. His smacking me hard on the ass for a particularly silent and stinky fart was such a grievous breaking of the rules of fair play that it resulted in my leaving him. Oh yes. There are rules of fair play when it comes to farting.
I think farts are hilarious. And the reaction of humans and their farting behavior is also hilarious. I have female friends who have been married serially and once for a real long time who claim to have never let one rip in front of the hubby. I think that's insane. But in doing an informal and not quite scientific study have found an alarming number of women who just don't get the humor of retaliatory farting.
I'm also a fan of the fart machine. Especially the fart machine with a remote control.
My longtime (and recurring) ex and I used to take the fart machine to the Symphony. I would slip it in my elegant Armani pants pocket and he would use the remote control. You might think this sexist--giving him all the power, but I beg to disagree. The farter is always the one with the real power. The one with the remote just gives the farter the power at the moment of maximum discomfort for the people around the farter, thus bestowing great comedic power on the farter. Innocence feigned is best in situations like that. The elegantly dressed female farter going round the nosh table at intermission in the important peoples room, the big contributors room at intermission of the symphony is one of my favorite comedic moments. I lean in next to a women who is more than likeley wearing magic underwear and has her Temple Recommend in good order and Tom hits the button on the remote control and out comes a two or three tone blast of a sound that is none other than a fart. I slit my eyes at the matron in the gold lame and quickly look away and her face turns scarlet. My eyes are watering with suppressed laughter. I put two fingers to my nose and pinch it gently. I roll my watering eyes at the man behind me as I slit my eyes toward the unfortunate matron ahead of me. He smiles involuntarily. And I leave the table with a couple of cookies on a napkin to take to Tom.
We sit for a second and laugh decorously. A man sits next to me after we regain our composure and Tom gives the remote control two hits of the button. One long bleating fart and then a very loud single note blast. Tom and I move two seats away from the man and then we lean out to look at him. He turns his head away in shame. And so it goes. I do one trip completely around the table farting gayly every time I reach for something. I stuff my face and giggle as I fart my way around the table. I'm amazed no one ever had to do the Heimlich maneuver on me. Then the bell rings and intermission is over. I am doubled over with laughter as we take our seats for the second act.
I have so many heinous stories of farting this will have to become a series. Tom once smacked me for farting most foul in the bed. He started it, so my retaliation seemed quite reasonable to me. I did not cotton to the double standard. His smacking me hard on the ass for a particularly silent and stinky fart was such a grievous breaking of the rules of fair play that it resulted in my leaving him. Oh yes. There are rules of fair play when it comes to farting.
Friday, April 9, 2010
The Remaining Twelve Things
13. I carried on an affair with a man I had no respect for because he had two polo ponies from Argentina and I wanted to help train and condition the horses over a winter and spring. I kept having sex with him through the polo season so I could learn to play polo. Then he went on a vacation to South Africa. He came back telling stories about how inept and corrupt the blacks in the government were compared to the old Apartheid regime. Then I dumped him.
14. When I was twenty-one I spent a year in Italy modeling. I became the darling of a very famous group of artists. I also had an affair with Nino Cerruti. He was such a lovely, sexy man. I was afraid I'd fall in love with him, so when he invited me to his birthday party I lied to him and told him I was going to the country house with Arnaldo Pomodoro and Toni Del Renzio. I was always invited to spend the weekends with Arnaldo and Toni and the rest of the artists in the group. But the real reason I declined Nino's invitation was the fear of loving him. Loving a man has always frightened me. It's all about fear of rejection, fear of abandonment. What a shame I've deprived myself of love.
15. Truth is, I've been happiest living alone. I have no family. Only a dwindling few friends. Death is stalking us all. But I live my life the way I choose. There is no one telling me I should or shouldn't do this or that. There is no one monitoring my every purchase. There is no one trying to coerce me, or trick me into doing what I'd rather not. There is no one to fight with over control of the remote. There is no one to do the things that I think men ought to be able to do. I miss this aspect of having a relationship with a man. I can cook, but I can't install a programable thermostat or fix the broken dryer. I can paint the walls, but I can't paint the ceiling.
16. I've had the strangest weakness for bass players. I lived with a very talented bass player for twenty some years, off and on. I had an affair with an Italian bass player in 1965. His name was Toio. Sad I can't remember his last name. He too was very talented. He was also a patient and skilled lover. Actually, except for the symphony bass player, my bass player lovers have been spectacularly good in bed. Something about the hands. I love the look of a man playing the stand up bass; it's shaped like a woman, and I especially like to watch the fingering. Don't care that much about the bowing. Maybe that's why the symphony player wasn't that good in bed. He couldn't improvise like the jazz bassists.
17. I've had a strange sexual reawakening lately. I thought I was through with all that. I'm not actually engaging in any sex with a real person in the flesh. But I've had a lovely flirtation with man I've admired for a long time. I've never seen him. I very likely never will. And most likely if I did meet him, it would ruin everything.
18. And while I'm on the subject of sexual fantasy versus reality... I've always believed one of the differences between men and women is that men try to live their sexual fantasies. This often results in unintended consequences. And it also lessens the power of the fantasy. I think most women know the value of fantasy as fantasy. It has real power so long as it remains a fantasy. Nothing can ruin a good fantasy faster than reality.
19. I've become nearly invisible in my old age. This happens to all of us as we age. At some point you notice guys are no longer checking you out. I found this very liberating. Now I rarely wear make-up. About the only concession I make to pulling myself together for the public these days is to wear a bra. I don't really give a shit how I look these days. Having spent my life having to look good and then hating the attention that it drew, I now luxuriate in my invisibility.
20. I think beautiful women are given a power that always becomes problematic. Someone once said to me that great beauty is like great inherited wealth. You did nothing to earn it or deserve it, and you'll never know if people love you for just your looks or just your money. The beauties often feel like objects. It's not a good feeling. For some men a beautiful woman is a great accessory. Beautiful women are a challenge to a certain kind of man, kind of like prey. The nice guys don't tend to court the beauties. I'm not sure why. And very few women really like the beauties when they show up at the dinner party. They too objectify the beauty and dismiss her. How could it be possible to be that pretty and be smart and funny as well? Where's the justice in that? The beauty is often seen as a threat. I'm no longer a threat to anyone. It's nice.
21. I have a temper. I will no longer muzzle myself. Good thing I live alone. I'm probably a lot nicer to animals than I am to people.
22. I lived an interesting life in interesting times. It was not easy. But now I have a great deal of material to write about. For me the real challenge is to use the material less as memoir and more as fiction. The new book is fiction. The characters are drawn from life, but I have taken great liberties with them. Like they say, "The characters in this book are not based on any persons living or dead." And whenever I see that disclaimer, I think, 'sure they aren't.'
23. I'm addicted to twitter.
24. I've smoked cigarettes since I was five. My heinous mother taught me to smoke and mix simple cocktails. She thought it was amusing to have me smoke and tend bar at her parties. I had a very strange childhood. I've smoked pot since I was eighteen or so. My doctors are amazed that my lungs are clear. My lungs are huge, but clear. Suck on that haters.
25. It's been so long since I've been held or felt naked skin on naked skin, I have skin hunger. I'd like once more to be held in a naked embrace by a man I trust. I think it isn't likely to ever happen again. So living in my head is the next best thing. Now I'm writing about being held in a naked embrace.
If I've repeated myself in this list I apologize. I'm too lazy to go look at the first list of things to check.
14. When I was twenty-one I spent a year in Italy modeling. I became the darling of a very famous group of artists. I also had an affair with Nino Cerruti. He was such a lovely, sexy man. I was afraid I'd fall in love with him, so when he invited me to his birthday party I lied to him and told him I was going to the country house with Arnaldo Pomodoro and Toni Del Renzio. I was always invited to spend the weekends with Arnaldo and Toni and the rest of the artists in the group. But the real reason I declined Nino's invitation was the fear of loving him. Loving a man has always frightened me. It's all about fear of rejection, fear of abandonment. What a shame I've deprived myself of love.
15. Truth is, I've been happiest living alone. I have no family. Only a dwindling few friends. Death is stalking us all. But I live my life the way I choose. There is no one telling me I should or shouldn't do this or that. There is no one monitoring my every purchase. There is no one trying to coerce me, or trick me into doing what I'd rather not. There is no one to fight with over control of the remote. There is no one to do the things that I think men ought to be able to do. I miss this aspect of having a relationship with a man. I can cook, but I can't install a programable thermostat or fix the broken dryer. I can paint the walls, but I can't paint the ceiling.
16. I've had the strangest weakness for bass players. I lived with a very talented bass player for twenty some years, off and on. I had an affair with an Italian bass player in 1965. His name was Toio. Sad I can't remember his last name. He too was very talented. He was also a patient and skilled lover. Actually, except for the symphony bass player, my bass player lovers have been spectacularly good in bed. Something about the hands. I love the look of a man playing the stand up bass; it's shaped like a woman, and I especially like to watch the fingering. Don't care that much about the bowing. Maybe that's why the symphony player wasn't that good in bed. He couldn't improvise like the jazz bassists.
17. I've had a strange sexual reawakening lately. I thought I was through with all that. I'm not actually engaging in any sex with a real person in the flesh. But I've had a lovely flirtation with man I've admired for a long time. I've never seen him. I very likely never will. And most likely if I did meet him, it would ruin everything.
18. And while I'm on the subject of sexual fantasy versus reality... I've always believed one of the differences between men and women is that men try to live their sexual fantasies. This often results in unintended consequences. And it also lessens the power of the fantasy. I think most women know the value of fantasy as fantasy. It has real power so long as it remains a fantasy. Nothing can ruin a good fantasy faster than reality.
19. I've become nearly invisible in my old age. This happens to all of us as we age. At some point you notice guys are no longer checking you out. I found this very liberating. Now I rarely wear make-up. About the only concession I make to pulling myself together for the public these days is to wear a bra. I don't really give a shit how I look these days. Having spent my life having to look good and then hating the attention that it drew, I now luxuriate in my invisibility.
20. I think beautiful women are given a power that always becomes problematic. Someone once said to me that great beauty is like great inherited wealth. You did nothing to earn it or deserve it, and you'll never know if people love you for just your looks or just your money. The beauties often feel like objects. It's not a good feeling. For some men a beautiful woman is a great accessory. Beautiful women are a challenge to a certain kind of man, kind of like prey. The nice guys don't tend to court the beauties. I'm not sure why. And very few women really like the beauties when they show up at the dinner party. They too objectify the beauty and dismiss her. How could it be possible to be that pretty and be smart and funny as well? Where's the justice in that? The beauty is often seen as a threat. I'm no longer a threat to anyone. It's nice.
21. I have a temper. I will no longer muzzle myself. Good thing I live alone. I'm probably a lot nicer to animals than I am to people.
22. I lived an interesting life in interesting times. It was not easy. But now I have a great deal of material to write about. For me the real challenge is to use the material less as memoir and more as fiction. The new book is fiction. The characters are drawn from life, but I have taken great liberties with them. Like they say, "The characters in this book are not based on any persons living or dead." And whenever I see that disclaimer, I think, 'sure they aren't.'
23. I'm addicted to twitter.
24. I've smoked cigarettes since I was five. My heinous mother taught me to smoke and mix simple cocktails. She thought it was amusing to have me smoke and tend bar at her parties. I had a very strange childhood. I've smoked pot since I was eighteen or so. My doctors are amazed that my lungs are clear. My lungs are huge, but clear. Suck on that haters.
25. It's been so long since I've been held or felt naked skin on naked skin, I have skin hunger. I'd like once more to be held in a naked embrace by a man I trust. I think it isn't likely to ever happen again. So living in my head is the next best thing. Now I'm writing about being held in a naked embrace.
If I've repeated myself in this list I apologize. I'm too lazy to go look at the first list of things to check.
Thursday, April 8, 2010
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
Twenty Five Things
Yes, you're in for twenty five things you may wish you didn't know about me after I tell you what they are. This sort of thing is a direct result of giving in to peer pressure on facebook. And if you've been crazy enough to have followed me from the beginning you may know some of these things, but if your new to my place, this will be news and you might not respect me in the morning.
1. I'm known to the men from my past as: difficult, mean, argumentative, that know-it-all bitch, and the woman who left for no good reason.
2. I'm a terrible flirt. I have no inhibition when it comes to telling attractive men just how attractive they are. This means the guys at the pharmacy love to see me coming. They remember my name.
3. I'm a very good shot. I've written about my history with guns. There are two little essays in my short story collection about my early years with guns and my later years with guns. The last time I owned a handgun I was being stalked by a discarded lover who came to my door about 2:00 AM. He kept knocking and making a general nuisance of himself. I got my handgun and opened the door. I pointed it at his face and told him to get the fuck out of my life, and if he didn't, next time he came knocking on my door I'd just shoot him. I never heard from him again. And I got rid of my gun not long after that episode. I realized I really did want to shoot him.
4. Most of you know this, but for those who don't, I was sexually abused all through my childhood and my mother knew about it and did nothing. This leads to all kinds of problems in later life. I neither trust men nor women. This also means I spend all my disposable income on therapy and psychoactive drugs. It's this early trauma that triggered the PTSD, anxiety disorder, agoraphobic tendencies, and may have exacerbated my bipolar disorder. It also led to a lot of inappropriate sexual acting out.
5. I modeled almost all my life. I have lived in small towns where there were no opportunities for a model and in those places I did things like manage a huge disco and bar where I turned a losing venture into one so successful it eventually imploded. See the short story, Too Damn Big.
6. The young people who worked for me in the Disco/Bar wanted me to be their Madame. Yes, it's true. I was asked to be the Madame for a bunch of very smart, talented, attractive college students wanting to make a buck and have me manage their business. I said no, but by then, at that point in my life, as the wife of a college professor living in a small college town, I knew it was time for me to get the hell out of Dodge. Scandal was a brewing.
7. I was always athletic. I learned to ski at five until I wrecked both knees in my forties. I rode horses all my life. I danced. I twirled my baton and stepped high in my white tasseled boots. I tumbled. I was a softball champ in grade school. I was the pitcher and the home-run champ. I took fencing as a way to work off excess hostility when my third husband and I were living in Denver where he was getting his PhD. I was skilled enough to compete, but it was my raw aggression that made me dangerous with my custom made epee. I still have it. I imagine I could still be dangerous with my epee. Every now and then I sharpen the edges of the blade. I might not be able to stab anyone with the point, but I could leave some nasty cuts and welts.
8. I've had so many lovers I can't remember half of them. Shameful isn't it? I've had three husbands. I've left every man I ever lived with or was married to. I'm the kind of woman who leaves. The reasons I leave are many, but most of them are rooted in my childhood.
9.I've been writing for forty years or more. No man I've lived with or loved in all that time was ever been willing to read anything I wrote. I asked them to read this or that and was always told no, or maybe later, but none of them ever read a word I wrote until I was living alone and writing on this blog.
10. I've been in therapy since I was 16.
11. I was an early admissions student at the University of Utah in 1961. I'd always loved books. I read adult books when I was a child. I thought it might help to know what the enemy was up to, and reading the books they read might help me understand them. So English Lit was a breeze for me. I'd already read those books. I was a good reference librarian for a too brief year. It was my favorite job. Then I got promoted to the worst job I ever had: Assistant Director for Marketing and Development of the Salt Lake County Library System. I discovered a massive fraud. I blew the whistle. Nobody likes a whistle blower.
11. I was incredibly passive well into my thirties. I had no desire to marry any of the men I married, but they pursued me so aggressively I just acquiesced. The men I married were of the generation that believed it was their birthright to be cared for by a loving and obedient woman. I went to school, worked outside the home, kept the house clean, did the laundry, shopped and cooked, and even bought their clothes for them. I was also a pretty passive sexual partner. I don't mean that I just lay there like an inanimate object but I did what they wanted and I did it with the same energy I did everything else. It just wasn't what I wanted to do. But then, I didn't want to do the laundry either, yet I did it well.
12. I tried every drug that came my way during the 60s. I was a woman of my generation and I traveled. I planned to live and die young. I believe anything my elders told me. I pretty much knew they were lying hypocrites. So, my motto was don't knock it if you haven't tried it. I discovered that the only drug I took that didn't exacerbate the depression and or rage was pot. So pot it was. Pot it still is.
I know I haven't got to number 25 yet, but I'm exhausted and need a nap. I know that unless these lists are limited to a very narrow field, like jobs you've had, or favorite books, I'll say some dark and scary shit. You might not like me after you read what I say here. You may cover your eyes and run screaming from the room. Don't trip on the way out. I never claimed I was going to be easy. I quit being easy when I was 35. I was long overdue and my rage had been simmering for a long time.
It may take me a day or two to get back to finishing this list, but I don't write about myself in an openended forum and hold back. If you're asking about me, and I'm answering, I'll tell you what I believe to be the truth, no matter how dark that truth might be.
1. I'm known to the men from my past as: difficult, mean, argumentative, that know-it-all bitch, and the woman who left for no good reason.
2. I'm a terrible flirt. I have no inhibition when it comes to telling attractive men just how attractive they are. This means the guys at the pharmacy love to see me coming. They remember my name.
3. I'm a very good shot. I've written about my history with guns. There are two little essays in my short story collection about my early years with guns and my later years with guns. The last time I owned a handgun I was being stalked by a discarded lover who came to my door about 2:00 AM. He kept knocking and making a general nuisance of himself. I got my handgun and opened the door. I pointed it at his face and told him to get the fuck out of my life, and if he didn't, next time he came knocking on my door I'd just shoot him. I never heard from him again. And I got rid of my gun not long after that episode. I realized I really did want to shoot him.
4. Most of you know this, but for those who don't, I was sexually abused all through my childhood and my mother knew about it and did nothing. This leads to all kinds of problems in later life. I neither trust men nor women. This also means I spend all my disposable income on therapy and psychoactive drugs. It's this early trauma that triggered the PTSD, anxiety disorder, agoraphobic tendencies, and may have exacerbated my bipolar disorder. It also led to a lot of inappropriate sexual acting out.
5. I modeled almost all my life. I have lived in small towns where there were no opportunities for a model and in those places I did things like manage a huge disco and bar where I turned a losing venture into one so successful it eventually imploded. See the short story, Too Damn Big.
6. The young people who worked for me in the Disco/Bar wanted me to be their Madame. Yes, it's true. I was asked to be the Madame for a bunch of very smart, talented, attractive college students wanting to make a buck and have me manage their business. I said no, but by then, at that point in my life, as the wife of a college professor living in a small college town, I knew it was time for me to get the hell out of Dodge. Scandal was a brewing.
7. I was always athletic. I learned to ski at five until I wrecked both knees in my forties. I rode horses all my life. I danced. I twirled my baton and stepped high in my white tasseled boots. I tumbled. I was a softball champ in grade school. I was the pitcher and the home-run champ. I took fencing as a way to work off excess hostility when my third husband and I were living in Denver where he was getting his PhD. I was skilled enough to compete, but it was my raw aggression that made me dangerous with my custom made epee. I still have it. I imagine I could still be dangerous with my epee. Every now and then I sharpen the edges of the blade. I might not be able to stab anyone with the point, but I could leave some nasty cuts and welts.
8. I've had so many lovers I can't remember half of them. Shameful isn't it? I've had three husbands. I've left every man I ever lived with or was married to. I'm the kind of woman who leaves. The reasons I leave are many, but most of them are rooted in my childhood.
9.I've been writing for forty years or more. No man I've lived with or loved in all that time was ever been willing to read anything I wrote. I asked them to read this or that and was always told no, or maybe later, but none of them ever read a word I wrote until I was living alone and writing on this blog.
10. I've been in therapy since I was 16.
11. I was an early admissions student at the University of Utah in 1961. I'd always loved books. I read adult books when I was a child. I thought it might help to know what the enemy was up to, and reading the books they read might help me understand them. So English Lit was a breeze for me. I'd already read those books. I was a good reference librarian for a too brief year. It was my favorite job. Then I got promoted to the worst job I ever had: Assistant Director for Marketing and Development of the Salt Lake County Library System. I discovered a massive fraud. I blew the whistle. Nobody likes a whistle blower.
11. I was incredibly passive well into my thirties. I had no desire to marry any of the men I married, but they pursued me so aggressively I just acquiesced. The men I married were of the generation that believed it was their birthright to be cared for by a loving and obedient woman. I went to school, worked outside the home, kept the house clean, did the laundry, shopped and cooked, and even bought their clothes for them. I was also a pretty passive sexual partner. I don't mean that I just lay there like an inanimate object but I did what they wanted and I did it with the same energy I did everything else. It just wasn't what I wanted to do. But then, I didn't want to do the laundry either, yet I did it well.
12. I tried every drug that came my way during the 60s. I was a woman of my generation and I traveled. I planned to live and die young. I believe anything my elders told me. I pretty much knew they were lying hypocrites. So, my motto was don't knock it if you haven't tried it. I discovered that the only drug I took that didn't exacerbate the depression and or rage was pot. So pot it was. Pot it still is.
I know I haven't got to number 25 yet, but I'm exhausted and need a nap. I know that unless these lists are limited to a very narrow field, like jobs you've had, or favorite books, I'll say some dark and scary shit. You might not like me after you read what I say here. You may cover your eyes and run screaming from the room. Don't trip on the way out. I never claimed I was going to be easy. I quit being easy when I was 35. I was long overdue and my rage had been simmering for a long time.
It may take me a day or two to get back to finishing this list, but I don't write about myself in an openended forum and hold back. If you're asking about me, and I'm answering, I'll tell you what I believe to be the truth, no matter how dark that truth might be.
Monday, April 5, 2010
Dear Fred
Fred is my therapist. He says he reads my blog and can tell how I'm doing by what I'm writing about. And he might be a bit worried about my mental health since I'm all over the place lately. I wrote a bit of "erotica" (some would call it porn, some would say it wasn't nearly graphic enough). I have almost no inhibitions about writing. For Fred, this might be a sign that I'm acting out in a sexual way. This is one of the "problems" facing those with poorly managed bipolar disorder. We can be very impulsive when mildly manic. But no one as reclusive as I would be out acting out in the real world. I'm home alone acting out. My dogs are fed and napping and I can act out without hurting anyone. So what's the damn harm in writing a little erotica?
Yes there were a couple of gloomy poems, but hell, that's what I do when I'm gloomy; I write about it. Where's the harm in that?
I've been pissed off that it's taken so long to recover from my bout of diverticulitis. I blame the hospital stay. It was a real bitch. I may be pissed off about that for a long time; the bills are starting to roll in. I'm going to challenge every fucking charge. They did their best to flip me into a bipolar crisis. I'm coping. Maybe not perfectly, but coping none the less.
So don't worry Fred. I might be flirting with an unavailable and inappropriate man I'll never meet, but god it's fun. And where's the harm in that?
Yes there were a couple of gloomy poems, but hell, that's what I do when I'm gloomy; I write about it. Where's the harm in that?
I've been pissed off that it's taken so long to recover from my bout of diverticulitis. I blame the hospital stay. It was a real bitch. I may be pissed off about that for a long time; the bills are starting to roll in. I'm going to challenge every fucking charge. They did their best to flip me into a bipolar crisis. I'm coping. Maybe not perfectly, but coping none the less.
So don't worry Fred. I might be flirting with an unavailable and inappropriate man I'll never meet, but god it's fun. And where's the harm in that?
Saturday, April 3, 2010
Thursday, April 1, 2010
I Live in a Theocracy; It's Called Utah
Utah has never been anything but a theocracy. It began as a theocracy and has, despite joining the Union, never really changed it's ways. Once in a great great while we elect a Democrat to Congress but unless they toe the Church line they don't last long. And there are a few Mormon Democrats, or so I've heard. Here, in the only liberal bastion in the state, Salt Lake City, we now and then elect a Democratic Mayor, or even the rare Governor. But it doesn't really matter all that much since the Mormon Church owns the State. In my neighborhood we non-Mormons have a majority, but that doesn't matter much given that I live in the most liberal enclave in the city, and it's tiny. I rarely travel outside my neighborhood if I can help it.
In any business in Utah that has a TV in a corner to entertain and inform those having to wait, and so need entertaining, Fox News or the local Fox affiliate is on and woe to the pushy broad who wants it changed. The only good thing about my recent hospital stay was I had control of the remote and MSNBC had not been blocked. For years the one cable channel that's broadcast at a volume so low only teenagers can hear it and they don't give a shit, was MSNBC. It's better now, but still not as clear or loud as Fox.
Mormons are told how to vote, what to think, what to believe, who to donate to, what to wear, right down to the magic underwear. The Mormon Church is homophobic in the extreme and racist to it's very deep dark secret core. Shit, blacks weren't even allowed inside the Ward Houses (Mormon for the churches every few blocks or so) and then the light went on. Black people make up a very large tithing opportunity missed and the Grand poobah had a "revelation from God" saying "Now's the time to rake in those dollars, so go ye missionary men to Africa and bring back the converts, for now we see the error of our past marketing plan." And God must have also said something alone the lines of "But the Gays? Not so much." The rich white men who make up the leadership of the Mormon Church are called The Quorum of the Twelve. It's a multi layer marketing plan and policy making organization. And as a result of the monetary focus of the official church policy, Utah is the scam capital of the Nation. The dollar is almighty god here. And any business person moving into Utah will be smart to join the club. But remember ladies, it's an old boys club. Women have their place, but it isn't as leader of the church, the family, or business. It's a patriarchal institution. But then aren't they all?
The Mormon Church was originally organized as a commune or a little Communist State complete with communal farms and distribution points. One of Salt Lakes most successful retail outlets was ZCMI or Zion's Cooperative Mercantile Institution. The Mormon version of a Church is a Ward house which is the small neighborhood version of a Stake House and next up is the Temple in every town and country. The Mormon Church has it's own institution of higher learning called Brigham Young University, and it has a very strict dress code within it's code of conduct. Mormon kids are supposed to always look like those clean-cut Mormon boys who go on their obligatory missions just out of high school. It's what they do instead of Military Service. And the Mormon Church doesn't pay their way. Their families do. It's a win/win for the Church. Ship the boys off when they're horniest, to parts far far away where they live with other boys just like themselves, and then when they make converts, those converts will be tithers for the greater good. But while you're on that mission, boys, don't turn gay. It's an unforgivable sin here in Zion. Yes, they do call it Zion.
Every voting district in Utah is just a collection/collective of Wards and Stake Houses. Most polling places are located in Wards. There is tremendous pressure on Mormons to vote with the Church. Independent thinking is seen as rebellious and deviant. It's a threat to the common good. Every high school has a "seminary" across the street where Mormon doctrine is taught to the future worker bees. The State Seal is a Beehive.
I know way too much about the Mormon Chruch's strange customs and bizarre history. I have a girlfriend who was raised in a polygamus family right here in Salt Lake. They are everywhere and living in plain sight. The Mormon Church does not want them prosecuated and unless they do something really outrageous like kidnapping little girls and marrying them off to nasty old men they get a pass. And one last irony: Alcohol is prohibited in the Mormon Church yet Utah has the highest per capita alcohol consumption in the country. Welcome to my world.
In any business in Utah that has a TV in a corner to entertain and inform those having to wait, and so need entertaining, Fox News or the local Fox affiliate is on and woe to the pushy broad who wants it changed. The only good thing about my recent hospital stay was I had control of the remote and MSNBC had not been blocked. For years the one cable channel that's broadcast at a volume so low only teenagers can hear it and they don't give a shit, was MSNBC. It's better now, but still not as clear or loud as Fox.
Mormons are told how to vote, what to think, what to believe, who to donate to, what to wear, right down to the magic underwear. The Mormon Church is homophobic in the extreme and racist to it's very deep dark secret core. Shit, blacks weren't even allowed inside the Ward Houses (Mormon for the churches every few blocks or so) and then the light went on. Black people make up a very large tithing opportunity missed and the Grand poobah had a "revelation from God" saying "Now's the time to rake in those dollars, so go ye missionary men to Africa and bring back the converts, for now we see the error of our past marketing plan." And God must have also said something alone the lines of "But the Gays? Not so much." The rich white men who make up the leadership of the Mormon Church are called The Quorum of the Twelve. It's a multi layer marketing plan and policy making organization. And as a result of the monetary focus of the official church policy, Utah is the scam capital of the Nation. The dollar is almighty god here. And any business person moving into Utah will be smart to join the club. But remember ladies, it's an old boys club. Women have their place, but it isn't as leader of the church, the family, or business. It's a patriarchal institution. But then aren't they all?
The Mormon Church was originally organized as a commune or a little Communist State complete with communal farms and distribution points. One of Salt Lakes most successful retail outlets was ZCMI or Zion's Cooperative Mercantile Institution. The Mormon version of a Church is a Ward house which is the small neighborhood version of a Stake House and next up is the Temple in every town and country. The Mormon Church has it's own institution of higher learning called Brigham Young University, and it has a very strict dress code within it's code of conduct. Mormon kids are supposed to always look like those clean-cut Mormon boys who go on their obligatory missions just out of high school. It's what they do instead of Military Service. And the Mormon Church doesn't pay their way. Their families do. It's a win/win for the Church. Ship the boys off when they're horniest, to parts far far away where they live with other boys just like themselves, and then when they make converts, those converts will be tithers for the greater good. But while you're on that mission, boys, don't turn gay. It's an unforgivable sin here in Zion. Yes, they do call it Zion.
Every voting district in Utah is just a collection/collective of Wards and Stake Houses. Most polling places are located in Wards. There is tremendous pressure on Mormons to vote with the Church. Independent thinking is seen as rebellious and deviant. It's a threat to the common good. Every high school has a "seminary" across the street where Mormon doctrine is taught to the future worker bees. The State Seal is a Beehive.
I know way too much about the Mormon Chruch's strange customs and bizarre history. I have a girlfriend who was raised in a polygamus family right here in Salt Lake. They are everywhere and living in plain sight. The Mormon Church does not want them prosecuated and unless they do something really outrageous like kidnapping little girls and marrying them off to nasty old men they get a pass. And one last irony: Alcohol is prohibited in the Mormon Church yet Utah has the highest per capita alcohol consumption in the country. Welcome to my world.
Into The Dark Quiet
I must cut myself off
Hide my need want nothing
I must go back to the center
Dive into the dark want nothing
I must gather myself together
Want nothing need no one dive deep
Into the dark back to a quiet center
Drive want deep into the dark quiet
© Peggy Pendleton
Hide my need want nothing
I must go back to the center
Dive into the dark want nothing
I must gather myself together
Want nothing need no one dive deep
Into the dark back to a quiet center
Drive want deep into the dark quiet
© Peggy Pendleton
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Dammit, It's Snowing, And That's Not All
Yesterday was terribly windy. I don't mind the occasional breezy day, but this was different. It was the kind of wind that brought down a neighbor's tree. It put my teeth on edge, made the dogs nervous, blew debris all over the place.
Truth is I've been in a bad mood for a couple of days. I was having a long conversation with someone on twitter in direct messages, which are private, not out in the open. It was a very interesting conversation and in direct message mode, I can see both sides of the conversation. I was invested in it. It meant something to me. But day before yesterday it vanished, all one hundred and forty seven of those messages just vanished. Not just his side of the conversation, but my side too. Poof! Gone! It made me mad. It made me paranoid. It made me sad.
Then today I struggled with a chapter of the new book. It was a difficult bit of writing. I gave the chapter a title and saved it. Then went to do laundry only to find that the dryer is dead. Totally fucking dead. This after I'd washed a load of sheets. It's snowing so there is no hanging wet sheets on the line to dry outside. And I blame the new kids.
Then when I got back to edit the story, it was gone. I know this makes no sense since blogger auto-saves constantly. But this is the second time this has happened to me with short stories and I will no longer write fiction on blogger. Bummer!
For some bizarre reason I woke up at 5:45 this morning, if you can call that morning. For most of my life that would have been called late night, and I'd be going to bed, but no. I tried to go back to sleep, but it wasn't possible for some strange reason. I've been pissed off all day and the snow is starting to accumulate. If it keeps this up, I'll have to shovel front and back because the new kids are moving the first of May and they no longer give a shit.
I'm too ticked off to tweet.
Truth is I've been in a bad mood for a couple of days. I was having a long conversation with someone on twitter in direct messages, which are private, not out in the open. It was a very interesting conversation and in direct message mode, I can see both sides of the conversation. I was invested in it. It meant something to me. But day before yesterday it vanished, all one hundred and forty seven of those messages just vanished. Not just his side of the conversation, but my side too. Poof! Gone! It made me mad. It made me paranoid. It made me sad.
Then today I struggled with a chapter of the new book. It was a difficult bit of writing. I gave the chapter a title and saved it. Then went to do laundry only to find that the dryer is dead. Totally fucking dead. This after I'd washed a load of sheets. It's snowing so there is no hanging wet sheets on the line to dry outside. And I blame the new kids.
Then when I got back to edit the story, it was gone. I know this makes no sense since blogger auto-saves constantly. But this is the second time this has happened to me with short stories and I will no longer write fiction on blogger. Bummer!
For some bizarre reason I woke up at 5:45 this morning, if you can call that morning. For most of my life that would have been called late night, and I'd be going to bed, but no. I tried to go back to sleep, but it wasn't possible for some strange reason. I've been pissed off all day and the snow is starting to accumulate. If it keeps this up, I'll have to shovel front and back because the new kids are moving the first of May and they no longer give a shit.
I'm too ticked off to tweet.
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Monday, March 29, 2010
Blackbird
Words dark as a blackbird's wings fall like a stone and are gone
All their meaning lost in an instant
Vanished as if never spoken
Never to be spoken again
And all the feelings contained in the words
Lost forever, not even a feather remains
Only the black stone where once beat
Blood red and full of passion
Something resembling
A heart
Lust
I've been unfaithful to you. I know it comes as no shock to you and perhaps it's too late for apologies. You may have already packed and left by now. I can't say I didn't mean to... I can't say it meant nothing... We both know too well, by now, that every act has consequences. "It just happened" isn't good enough, but it just happened... I don't want to lose you; you mean too much to me. But so does he... It started as flirtation. Isn't that how it always starts? It's harmless, you say to yourself. It's just talk. Nothing can come of it. It's Spring, it's just the season. And then comes summer and you're in deeper. It's just a place I go when I want to get away, but the crowd's a lot of fun, and the conversation's hot and interesting, and then he appeared. It was a shock to see him there. I didn't expect it to make me feel this way. It was all very innocent at first and then... I started writing little stories to keep his interest and now it's turning into a book. I know it embarrasses you. It embarrasses me too, but I'm in too deep to stop. I'll try to keep these feelings out of sight and hidden away, but you know how it goes when you try to keep a secret... Sometimes things just spill over into the the other parts of your life...
Saturday, March 27, 2010
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Things You Might Not Know About Me
I began riding horses when I was six. We had friends who had a dairy farm just north of Salt Lake. When the adults got together the kids went riding. We rode bareback with simple rope halters. In the morning after milking, we herded the cows back to pasture. In the late afternoon we rounded them up and herded them back to the barn. We helped with milking in the days long before milking machines. I would sit on a stool and lean my forehead into the fragrant warmth of a cow who seemed grateful to have her udder emptied. I was proud of my strong hands and the feeling of competence I got knowing that my help was welcome and praised. Barn cats would line up to get a squirt straight from the teat.
I learned to ski when I was six and I got very good at it. There was never a ski season that I didn't sprain a knee or ankle getting in one last run on a dying day.
I played softball at school when I was seven, eight, nine. I was the pitcher on my team and my best friend, Mary Dorsche was the first baseman. We vied for home-run champ honors at bat. She lived on a horse farm down the road and across the highway to town from our house in Redmond, Oregon. After school and on the weekends we took turns riding horses and practiced pitching and batting. I was a grubby little jock. And then hormones flooded my little body making nipples tender and swollen, making pubic hair sprout. And in the space of a couple of months I could no longer slide into home-plate on my belly. Mary and I were now in a race to a freakishly early puberty. But gone was the wild freedom of our fearless athleticism on the playground.
Throughout my long life I have kept riding horses. I had a girlfriend who ran the Equestrian Classes for the University of Utah. She always had at least thirty or so well behaved horses for classes. I taught beginning western riding and took kids out on trail rides up Corner Canyon in Draper, Utah. Now and then we would take a group on an overnight camp-out carrying provisions on pack horses. We crewed in the Park City Ride and Tie. I crewed for Terry on National Endurance Races. We would begin the very early morning with a joint and a beer. Now that's the breakfast of champions!
In my early fifties I was helping a male friend condition his polo ponies during the winter months and very early spring. In exchange for this help he taught me to play polo. There is hardly anything more exhilarating than galloping down a polo field on a great horse, reigns in left hand and polo mallet in the other, leaning far forward and making contact with the ball to out maneuver an opponent.
I wrecked my knees skiing. In my late forties I had to have my anterior cruciate repaired and gave up downhill skiing. But in all my long life of riding horses, I had only one fall, landing on my tailbone in winter on the frozen ground. It was the final insult to my sacrum. I have suffered back pain ever since, but I can't blame it all on that fall. And if I had the chance to ride a great horse on a good trail, I'd fly like the wind grinning from ear to ear. Only one of my friends shared my love of the wild ride, the power of well conditioned horseflesh between my legs, the feel of strength and competence I felt in my skill as a rider.
In the early 1990s they closed Corner Canyon and developed the land my friend's riding stable was located on, forcing her to move to Greenriver. I miss her and her great horses. Now I only dream of riding.
I learned to ski when I was six and I got very good at it. There was never a ski season that I didn't sprain a knee or ankle getting in one last run on a dying day.
I played softball at school when I was seven, eight, nine. I was the pitcher on my team and my best friend, Mary Dorsche was the first baseman. We vied for home-run champ honors at bat. She lived on a horse farm down the road and across the highway to town from our house in Redmond, Oregon. After school and on the weekends we took turns riding horses and practiced pitching and batting. I was a grubby little jock. And then hormones flooded my little body making nipples tender and swollen, making pubic hair sprout. And in the space of a couple of months I could no longer slide into home-plate on my belly. Mary and I were now in a race to a freakishly early puberty. But gone was the wild freedom of our fearless athleticism on the playground.
Throughout my long life I have kept riding horses. I had a girlfriend who ran the Equestrian Classes for the University of Utah. She always had at least thirty or so well behaved horses for classes. I taught beginning western riding and took kids out on trail rides up Corner Canyon in Draper, Utah. Now and then we would take a group on an overnight camp-out carrying provisions on pack horses. We crewed in the Park City Ride and Tie. I crewed for Terry on National Endurance Races. We would begin the very early morning with a joint and a beer. Now that's the breakfast of champions!
In my early fifties I was helping a male friend condition his polo ponies during the winter months and very early spring. In exchange for this help he taught me to play polo. There is hardly anything more exhilarating than galloping down a polo field on a great horse, reigns in left hand and polo mallet in the other, leaning far forward and making contact with the ball to out maneuver an opponent.
I wrecked my knees skiing. In my late forties I had to have my anterior cruciate repaired and gave up downhill skiing. But in all my long life of riding horses, I had only one fall, landing on my tailbone in winter on the frozen ground. It was the final insult to my sacrum. I have suffered back pain ever since, but I can't blame it all on that fall. And if I had the chance to ride a great horse on a good trail, I'd fly like the wind grinning from ear to ear. Only one of my friends shared my love of the wild ride, the power of well conditioned horseflesh between my legs, the feel of strength and competence I felt in my skill as a rider.
In the early 1990s they closed Corner Canyon and developed the land my friend's riding stable was located on, forcing her to move to Greenriver. I miss her and her great horses. Now I only dream of riding.
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Who, Me?
Once in awhile things get wacky on twitter. I was recently called a "rich bitch ex-fashion model who has no right to call (myself) a progressive." Aside from the fact that I have never been rich, the statement shows the bias so many have against women who were able to support themselves by their looks. I suppose if I were telling everyone I'd made my living as a high priced hooker, they might not feel quite the same way. But still, it is probably true that women with the certain set of appearance qualifications to make a modest living modeling are not exactly beloved by the rest of the population. Certain assumptions are made about us. I'd like to dispel a few of them now:
1. All models are anorexic
No, most models are born with the genetic goods and eat like pigs. We come from families where almost every member of the clan is tall and thin throughout all their lives. It's in the bones, not the diet.
2. All models are narcissists
Quite the contrary. All the models I knew were deeply insecure and none of them felt "beautiful." It's one thing to be told you're beautiful all your life; it's quite another to see yourself as beautiful. We were a bunch of women who knew we were tall enough, thin enough, but beautiful? Maybe passably pretty, but certainly not beautiful. And no amount of reassurance and constant bookings can make a woman see herself as a beauty.
3. All models are rich bitchs
Some models marry rich men, but most do not. And the few who do, don't generally marry nice guys, since nice guys aren't usually brave enough to ask a model out. Few models make enough over their life as a model to save for retirement. Most models have self-esteem problems just like most women in this culture. Modeling is an expensive and usually short-lived career: they have to keep up with trends in fashion and look the part; they have to buy a new shoe wardrobe each season; they have to purchase the exact undergarments the people who hire them want them to wear to fittings and in shows; all models are contract labor, which means they pay for all the things an employer would pay for any employee. Models need a tax accountant; they pay their agents 15% of their bookings; they have to keep a portfolio updated; they have to get a new headshot or model's card made ever year or as often as they change anything in their appearances, such as haircut or color. As to the bitch part of that statement? I suspect that models are no more or less likely to be bitches than women in the general population.
Any questions?
1. All models are anorexic
No, most models are born with the genetic goods and eat like pigs. We come from families where almost every member of the clan is tall and thin throughout all their lives. It's in the bones, not the diet.
2. All models are narcissists
Quite the contrary. All the models I knew were deeply insecure and none of them felt "beautiful." It's one thing to be told you're beautiful all your life; it's quite another to see yourself as beautiful. We were a bunch of women who knew we were tall enough, thin enough, but beautiful? Maybe passably pretty, but certainly not beautiful. And no amount of reassurance and constant bookings can make a woman see herself as a beauty.
3. All models are rich bitchs
Some models marry rich men, but most do not. And the few who do, don't generally marry nice guys, since nice guys aren't usually brave enough to ask a model out. Few models make enough over their life as a model to save for retirement. Most models have self-esteem problems just like most women in this culture. Modeling is an expensive and usually short-lived career: they have to keep up with trends in fashion and look the part; they have to buy a new shoe wardrobe each season; they have to purchase the exact undergarments the people who hire them want them to wear to fittings and in shows; all models are contract labor, which means they pay for all the things an employer would pay for any employee. Models need a tax accountant; they pay their agents 15% of their bookings; they have to keep a portfolio updated; they have to get a new headshot or model's card made ever year or as often as they change anything in their appearances, such as haircut or color. As to the bitch part of that statement? I suspect that models are no more or less likely to be bitches than women in the general population.
Any questions?
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