GOP Liars and the Lying Lies They Keep Telling

I suspected that the economy was unraveling before the election was over, but had no idea how bad it really was until Bush, himself, the Decider in Chief, asked for Billions to bail out his buddies on Wall Street, the very guys who got the big beefy tax breaks, and the obscene bonuses for ruining the economy, just as Bush himself was heading out the door, pockets bulging.  That worked well, didn't it?  The Republicans seemed to have no problem bailing out Wall Street,  and then blaming Obama for TARP, but when it came time to hand out a few paltry dollars as a stimulus to the economy to bail out those of us, lowly middle class taxpayers who'd lost our homes, our pensions, our life savings in the Wall Street melt down, well that was a different story.

The Republicans are still at it.  They don't give a flying fuck about the middle class.  They keep voting against extending unemployment benefits for those hardest hit by this deep recession, the lowly middle class.  They are telling the ignorant teagaggers that unemployment benefits are a form of welfare for the lazy.  Once again, they are wrong.  A wage earner who has worked his or her whole life and is now unemployed due to the contraction in the job market caused by the recession, has been contributing through payroll deductions to an account that is just for this kind of event, is now being insulted on a daily basis by the GOP.  Unemployment Insurance is just that.  It's insurance in the event that one will be unemployed due to no fault of one's own. If you don't know this you've never punched a timeclock.

The New Black Panthers and the Old White Men

The discussion centers on whether the Justice Department's civil rights division mishandled a lawsuit against members of the New Black Panther Party, which was filed weeks before the Obama administration took office. The suit was focused on the party and two of its members, who stood out front of a polling place in Philadelphia on Election Day 2008 wearing military gear. They were captured on video and were accused of trying to discourage some people from voting. One carried a nightstick. 


This is an except taken from a piece in the Washington Post dated 7/14/10 and written by Krissah Thompson

It begins: A 2008 voter-intimidation case has become a political controversy for the Obama administration as conservative lawyers, politicians and commentators raise concerns that the Department of Justice has failed to protect the civil rights of white voters. 

Abigail Thernstrom (a member of the Bush Civil Rights Commission) said that she did not find testimony convincing and that the facts of the case raised doubts in her mind, noting that the Black Panthers were standing in front of a majority-black precinct that had voted overwhelmingly for Democrats in previous elections -- not a prime spot for intimidating white voters. 


There is nothing more disgusting to me than hearing whites complain that they are being discriminated against on the basis of race when they are attempting to deport every brown person in this country who wasn't living here a hundred years ago and has a birth certificate and passport to prove it when they're asked to show their papers to some beefy red faced jackass with a gun strapped around his bulging belly who calls himself a teapartier and a patriot.  Frankly I'm ready for the uprising of all of us with some native or African DNA to deport all those racist idiots.  I'm so sick of them and their fake indignation over "illegals."  You are all illegals in my book.  My DNA dates back three thousand years of living on this continent.  Go fuck yourselves, you lilly white idiots.  Go back to the Old Country wherever that is.  Get a job cleaning someone's home or gardening for them.  Then you can start complaining about how good things were in the USofA when you were the boss of everything.

Politics: Why I Blog

When my young friends from New York were visiting in January of '08, just after I got my Imac so I could finish writing my first novel, they insisted I needed a blog.  They had to explain to me what a "Blog" was.  Web log?  WTF?  Why would I ever want to do that?  What a pointless endeavor, no one would ever read it.  And aside from working on a difficult manuscript, I didn't really have much to say.  Or so I thought.  1,365 posts later, I have discovered my voice.

It was a political season and I am a political animal.  There could not have been a better time for me to start a blog.  In the beginning of that political season, I was a Hillary supporter, but as the season progressed, I became an Obama supporter. I had begun to have readers and some of them were outraged that I, a feminist, would abandon Hillary.  It was our turn, as women, to put a woman in the White House and not as just First Lady, a term any feminist worth her salt should hate.  We are not "Ladies" we are women.  But it became clear to me that Hillary was not well served by the advise she was getting and that advise was coming from people she had chosen to run her campaign.  She was making rookie mistakes, acting like she was entitled to the nomination, as if it were a coronation and she was the heir apparent.  She was leaving States she'd lost without thanking her volunteers and supporters for their generous help and forgetting to congratulate the victor, her current boss.  She began to seem boorish and rude to me.  And I worried that if she won, she'd do the same thing as President; she'd put the same lousy advisers in positions of power, and she'd still be getting bad advise.

I'm not always sure Obama is all that well served by some of his adivser, but one person I'm positive he's getting and honest advise from is Hillary.  It was a brilliant move to offer her Secretary of State.  So we, the voters got a three-fer:  We got Barack, we got Hillary, and as a tripple player, we got Bill Clinton, the man we quietly call on when we need some charming arm twisting done in the troublesome South.

The Death of a Local Jazz Great

Wayne Christiansen was killed in a car crash on his way home from the Jazz Festival.  He was a monster talent.  He was a great pianist and composer.  I knew him from the time Tom Burton and I lived together up Emigration Canyon.  They played together for awhile.  They'd played together in the 60s at The Quarter Note.  It was the only bar in town where you could go almost every night and hear really good Jazz.  David Harrison owned it at the time.  Wayne was one of the few musicians I really liked personally.  I know that sounds harsh, but harshness seems to be what I'm left with.  My last encounter with Wayne was at a small club on State Street.  It was a complete surprise to find him there, and I went up during a break to say Hi and to make a request.  I asked him to play Round Midnight.  And he did.  If I were anyone else in the world I would have said, "Thank you, that was lovely."  But I'm not that nice a person.  I wanted the classic Round Midnight and I got a virtuoso bebop version instead.  It was a great deal more than I deserved.  But my reaction to it was to give him shit about overdoing the virtuosity.  It was the last time I saw him.

David Harrison just called to tell me, and to ask for Tom Burton's phone number.  And it shocks me how careless I've been with every man I've ever known.  I no longer have a way to get in touch with Tom.  But I gave him Pat Zwick's numbers (another man I've finally completely alienated with my anger). Pat will know how to get in touch with him. There will be a memorial for Wayne, and I've been told when and where to go. And then there will be The Bastille Day Reunion.  I won't be able to go to either event.  There are men from my past who I want to avoid and for perfectly good reasons, not just because I'm bipolar and careless with my insults.  But I have been unforgivably careless of Tom's feelings and for that too, I'm sorry.  To bad I won't have the chance to make amends for my past bad behavior, but any contact with people with whom I've had a long relationship and have bailed on, is another opportunity for me to be cruel and careless, or to be hurt again myself.  I'm a coward when it comes to close quarters with the past.  It's been too painful.  And much of that pain has been self inflicted.

So, goodbye Wayne.  I'm so sorry I was so awful.  And I waited too long to tell you.

One Night of Missed Pills Equals Two Lost Days, So Far...

It doesn't take much to topple this bipolar person from her delicate balance.  I've worked very hard to achieve "normal."  Normal is for me a very hard-won balancing act.  I teeter here, on the balance beam of sanity, a bit wobbly but still standing. One missed dose of antidepressant and the two mood stabilizers made me stay up all night and spend yesterday watching old movies and lying in bed trying to stay out of trouble.  I tried to tweet a bit, write a place holder post, and clean up my dresser, but I couldn't type.  Words tumbled out like letter salad.  I now think I know what it must feel like to be truly dyslexic, the brain moving like lightning, too fast for the fingers to keep up.  My one little cleaning project expanded as I moved the mess on top of my dresser from one surface to another, expanding chaos rather than taming it.

Today I thought I'd be back to "normal," but I'm slow and disinclined to do anything but stay out of trouble.  Monday is a day I usually grocery shop, but I'm not inclined to trust myself to stay out of trouble in a store of any kind.  Shopping is potentially dangerous.  And I'm not in desperate need of anything yet.  I can feed myself today.  I have plenty of dog food.  Nobody needs a treat, so sending myself off to the treat store is just flirting with disaster.  If I really want to see what shopping is all about for me, I'll clean the cupboard and fridge.  I could probably feed a family of four for a month on what I have stashed away.  I'll thaw something for dinner.  I know from a cursory glance that I have ham steak, pork chops, rib eye steak, pot roast, ground lamb and more.  In my pantry I have rice, potatoes,  grits, cereal, two back-up jars of mayonnaise; what the hell do I need?  I have greens for salad, cabbage for slaw.  I have honey yogurt and blueberries.  I will not starve.

I'd love to work outside, but the temperature is climbing toward the high 90s so I'm going to spend another day just chillin'.  If my brain were in good functioning order I'd read all day, but a page of words is like trying to read word-salad.  Typing is easier today, but still not as natural as it should be.  I could retweet all day on twitter, but I'd have nothing original to add to the conversation, so I'll give it a break for one more day.  The world won't wobble off it's axis without me.

Oops

Today it's Sunday.  There.  Now I'm anchored.
Last night I missed a dose and now it's like an acid trip, almost.
Last time I looked at the clock last night it was 4:00 AM
It was the most important dose.  The Sinequan would knock me out eventually
It wasn't on board. I take two 800 mg Neurontin every night along with the Sinequan
Then the half a Lisinopril and the double dose of Loveistatin to keep my veins open and unclogged
And finally the rhythm keeper! Flecainide!  It keeps my heart beating in my dreams.  I took none of it.

I can barely type. I just came in from trimming the Virginia Creeper along the sliding gate and fence at the very back.  It's where I hide.  It's how I get in and out in my mommy mobile.
Invisible on the streets of Salt Lake
It's where I store my bricks and future gate.
It's where one Aspen's dying.  I'm watering now.

I took a 25 mg Sinequan and an extra Neurontin this morning or rather early afternoon.  I'm coping.  I'm staying in and out of sight.

The charming, somewhat glamorous boy and girl returned late today. They've been traveling. There will be parties ahead.

Dartmouth stayed home and worked like a Cholo with borrowed power tools, cords hanging out
the dining room window.  Screen removed.  Always barefoot.  Suntanned barefoot beautiful boy.
I avoid the front of the house and so the weeds grow,
The lawn burns, the flowers need deadheading.
I need to get the blower out.  But first I'll get the dust down.

Ms M brought Roscoe over for a three day visit with overnights.  We three, Roscoe, Marly and me (that's the problem with her name) watched movies and ate popcorn until the wee small hours and not once did I think about my pills.  I take a handful every night.  They're all lined up in morning and nighttime doses.  I know better than anyone how important they are.  It was an accident.  I've heard it said, "There are no accidents."  I don't buy that.  No one would deliberately destroy the balance that keeps her on her feet, her brain working, her life from devolving into chaos when she's worked so hard to create a bit more order this year.

It's 7:00 PM and I'm taking my pills.  I'll go to bed early, hopefully get up early and get things done.
I'm not oblivious to the fact that I just wrote a piece about what it's like to be bipolar and not medicated correctly.  I know the dangers.

Shopping's a Symptom?

Show me a woman with a real serious shopping compulsion and I'll show you a bipolar woman.  If that woman's mother found her life's greatest pleasure shopping, I'll show you the closest genetic link, though there will be many in the lineage of that family. It's probably the most under-diagnosed of the mental illnesses and yet it seems everyone's bipolar these days. It's one of the few genetic illnesses with two genetic markers, which means that if there is one bipolar person in your family, there will be many more, diagnosed or not. 

Compulsion (mania and psychosis) and the complete absence of compulsion (depression) are the two poles of bipolar disorder.  With compulsion comes boundless energy.  The joy of having both energy and the purpose of compulsion feels great and no one in a slightly manic swing will want to come back to earth.  The compulsion to shop takes me when I'm transitioning into hypo-mania.  That's when I have boundless energy and feel a strong sense of well being and optimism.  "Money's like a river; it has to flow.  Spend it and more will come."  It's the "zen like" place where I have absolute faith that it will all work out and I need those Gucci high heeled boots. It would be great if I used that energy to clean my closet and scrub all the floors since I don't have enough money to quite pay all my medical bills.  The impulse to shop, especially shopping without a list (for things I don't really need) should be a signal for me to check in with my therapist and see if I need an appointment with my shrink for a med check. Problem is, it feels so good.  Hypo-mania is like the very best drug.  This is how life is supposed to feel.  I feel charming, but I'm probably a little too intense, a bit too loud for most people.  It might be that's when I start thinking that my sex drive isn't dead after all.  Another red flag for those with bipolar disorder is an intense and perhaps inappropriate sexual appetite that might lead to disastrous sexual encounters.  Yes, encounters with an S. Yes, without protection. Yes, with much younger men. Yes, possibly married younger men. Yes, maybe married to your sister.

A lack of impulse control and a high tolerance for chaotic disorder is a another symptom of someone in the hypo-manic phase of the illness.  All these things might seem to you like personality. And yes, there might be a narrow line between being a charming, flirtatious, fast-talking smarty-pants, but then if you have no boundaries at all, and you feel compelled to fuck your sister's husband, you are probably at risk of driving the bullet-train that is your "personality" off the cliff.  We can be incredible drama queens.  We can be very destructive and self-destructive.  But then our lives have probably been quite trying, not to mention embarrassing for our families.  As children (if female) we are the ones who get bullied and abused.  We may be the family's scapegoat.  We might be the child who is sexually abused.  And as we grow into our teens we will likely become the ones who cut ourselves so we can feel something, so numbed by stress and psychic pain are we.  That's not to say that every child who is bullied at school and abused at home is going to be bipolar.  But a high percentage of female bipolar adults had that kind of childhood. We are the vulnerable ones, no matter how brash we may seem.

So what does this have to do with you?  Bipolar disorder is under-diagnosed, and if diagnosed, often kept secret.  And in the early stages of depression you do feel sick.  Depression may begin with a strange fatigue, a headache that won't go away, a low grade fever that lasts for weeks.  You ache all over.  These symptoms have sent me to the doctor many times, and each time tests have been run and one of the things they check is my thyroid.  Before any doctor diagnoses depression other things have to be ruled out.  And in the testing phase, they may find a thing or two.  I once had a one-time sugar spill in a urine sample.  This was so perplexing to my doctor that she had a complete endocrine work up done.  I was desperately hoping that it would be an endocrine problem, anything but another depression.  But there is nothing wrong with my endocrine system.  I do have heart problems, but they have never been mistaken for bipolar symptoms.  Depression is serious.  It can't be dismissed as just laziness.  If you're the only one in your family who's ever been seriously depressed, it might be that other members of your family tend to be a bit on the manic side.  If mania is the predominant side of bipolar disorder for those in your gene pool, chances are those folks will never be diagnosed.  Because who ever thought dynamism was a bad thing? Those who mostly swing towards mania are energetic, fun in a breathless sort of way, and productive powerhouses.  They are often greatly admired.  And they can be mean, so woe to the depressive bipolar child who lives in a family of manics, for there will be no sympathy there.  We just seem terribly lazy to the rest of our lunatic relatives.

Bipolar disorder can be managed quite well with the right drugs.  But finding the right drug might take a bit of trial and error.  And once the right drug is found compliance is often a problem.  Few bipolar drugs are weight-neutral.  I carry forty pounds of drug weight.  Zoloft makes me lose weight, but I tend to get a bit manic on it.  Wellbutrin can help you quit smoking but made me psychotic.  Most bipolar drugs keep me from dreaming, and for me, dreaming is one of life's little miracles.  So I'm willing to trade being thin for being able to time-travel in my sleep.  For most women the weight gain may make compliance problematic.  For men, just admitting that they have a problem that needs medication is astonishing in itself.  Men experience bipolar disorder differently than women.  Or at least they shop for different things like cars and boats and tools and such.  Men may be violent when manic. The high of a manic stage can manifest as aggression for both men and women, but men express their aggression more often with fists, and most bipolar men think having an insatiable sex drive is the ideal anyway so what's the problem there?  Inappropriate sex?  Are you kidding?

I've been in a lot of group therapy for bipolar disorder and I have never seen a man in any of those groups. And it's not because they were women-only groups.  Men don't seek treatment unless repeated incarcerations find them negotiating further jail time for therapy and enforced drug treatment.  A lot of men would rather do jail time than admit they have a mental illness and have to take drugs that take the thrill of risky compulsions out of their lives.  Because the compulsion for risky sexual behavior is a lot more fun than feeling just normal.

We still live in a time of shame when it comes to mental illness.  Many of us just self-medicate to try to feel normal.  We smoke cigarettes (which are a mild antidepressant) and drink too much.  We smoke pot and drink too much.  We do meth so we can have the energy that depression takes away, and drink too much.  We will try damn near anything to feel "normal," except take an antidepressant or anti-psychotic that will stigmatize us as crazy and make us gain weight.  But remember, along with a high degree of creativity we also have the highest rate of suicide for any illness.  It is our leading cause of death before the age of fifty.  After that we're the real experts on the illness.

The Dog House

This doghouse was Roscoes.  When Ms M first got him, he was an adorable puppy.  But as he grew his behavior, when left alone, caused her to have to relocate often.  He would tear up her stuff if left inside alone.  If left outside alone he would howl and bark incessantly, driving neighbors nuts.  If given half a chance he'd escape his solitude to end up chased around the neighborhood by the dog catcher.  She got him a dog run and he'd just howl his outrage at being behind bars.  Then she and he boyfriend at the time made Roscoe the world's sturdiest dog house. The idea was to give Roscoe shelter that was so heavy that when leashed to it by a study cord attached to the doghouse, he'd be safe and have shelter. He was never happy with this dog house. He hated being leashed to a dog house he'd never go inside.  He'd still howl and carry on, attempting to drag the dog house behind him as he tried to get away from it.  So moving in with me was her last chance to find a way to keep Roscoe.  He was always happy here, and there was never a need to chain him to his unused doghouse.  So, the doghouse has remained empty.  I think of it as a warning to possible intruders that you may not see the huge dog, but he sure has a very big doghouse, so buzz off.

Marly is the only dog to show an interest in it.  No, she doesn't ever go inside and curl up like a contented dog, but she does poke around it now and then.

"...His Injury Here, With Her Punishment There..."

It's All In My Head

I'm Bipolar.  I'm crazy too. And to make matters worse, my pedophile dad was a psychologist.  So, even though it was important to the family that I keep my piehole shut about what my daddy had been doing to me, my daddy was always telling me that my seething fury and the self inflicted wounds of careless "accidents" was all in my head.  And it was, in the sense that I might open my mouth and spill my guts to a sympathetic stranger, and what would come out might just put my whole family in jail and me in the looney bin for life.  My mother would scream, "Snap out of it!"  My father would say, "It's all in your head."  It never helped, and though it was all in my head, I could not snap out of it.

My dad's dad was a famous surgeon here in Salt Lake City.  He was Chief of Staff of a couple of Salt Lake's finest hospitals and a high up muckymuck in the Shriners.  He too was a pedophile.  I found this out when he died and his elderly only daughter (another crazy woman) got all Doc's films and photos.  As she and her children were watching the first of Docs carefully numbered films they were surprised to see two kids, ages ten and seven, having clumsy sex with one another.  The little boy was the seven year old and he grew up to become my daddy.  The little girl was the old woman watching home movies with her children.  It was a little awkward.  The man with the movie camera was Doc and the director was his wife, my Grandmother.  And so begins the problem that would disguise my bipolar disorder with all the symptoms of an adult victim of child sexual abuse.  Turns out that's not uncommon in children with bipolar disorder.  Pedophiles either create their own victims or find them.  But the kids with underlying bipolar disorder are often also the victims of child sexual abuse precisely because they're vulnerable.

It is rare for the bipolar child to be unscathed by other victimization.  We are bullied, we are withdrawn, we are moody and sometimes full of a rage so fierce it can only be safely turned within and we are often the teens who cut ourselves or have frequent "accidents."  It is also rare for the bipolar adult to be without substance abuse.  We are mostly self-medicating, trying desperately to find a place within that feels "normal." If I'm describing your childhood here and you have been diagnosed as "depressed," that may just be your predominant pole in the bipolar swing.  It was mine.  I spent years so depressed I couldn't get out of bed.  And depression almost always begins with symptoms that seem like a serious sickness.  You ache all over; you feel so tired movement seems like walking through molasses; you might have a low grade fever, a headache that won't go away; you lose your apatite; you go to your doctor certain there will be a diagnosis and a pill to fix it.  And eventually, after a series of expensive tests that find nothing, you'll get put on an antidepressant. And there are pills to fix your symptoms.

There are so many drugs to treat depression and the mood swings that go along with it, like the occasional psychosis.  But first everything else has to be ruled out.  My thyroid was almost always suspected since my eyes are prominent, or were before the upper lid began to droop.  But, if after a month or so on a new drug, my symptoms aren't getting less debilitation, I probably need to try another drug.  There is one that will help.  And it needs to be a psychiatrist who works through that process of finding the right drug, so I can live in a place of emotional balance.  It's a process of trial and error.  The errors can feel like a full blown psychosis or a lobotomy.  And most bipolar drugs are not weight neutral as it is so genteelly described in the inserts that come with a new drug.  I gain up to forty pounds on certain antidepressants, and no amount of dieting will get rid of it.  This is one of the reasons so many women won't stay on their antidepressant.  Would you rather sleep for a couple of years or live your life with a bit more weight?

At the depth of a depression is a coma-like sleep that is dreamless and very difficult to come out of to eat, bathe, and then make it back to bed.  Eating, bathing and walking across the room all take enormous energy when in the depths.  Sorrow resides there as well as oblivion.  Regret is sorrows twin.  And it doesn't help to have a family member shout "Snap out of it! I don't believe in depression!"  That's probably just a family member who is in the hypomanic phase of bipolar disorder and hasn't been diagnosed yet.

The Stupidity of Burning Money: Fireworks!

We, like many municipalities, are in a money crunch.  We're cutting programs for kids.  The arts are going, parks programs are cut, sports programs for kids are cut, and so, in an effort to keep some of those programs the Sugarhouse Fireworks display was cut.  To me this is a very sensible solution to saving money.  What is a fireworks display but the literal burning of money in a very ostentatious way, with a lot of noise and a certain amount of risk of life and limb to the idiots blowing things up. "... it costs more than pocket change to put on the show: $55,000 to be exact"  according to the article in the Salt Lake Tribune.  So some idiot with more money than brains began a private effort to raise the money to put on the blowing shit up program in Sugarhouse Park.  And it was wildly successful.  So, fine.  We can raise the money to blow shit up, but we can't afford a summer arts program.  This private effort to raise funds is laudable.  But if we, the citizens who feel so burdened by taxes can raise money for fireworks, why can't we do the same for our public schools, or summer programs for kids from poor families?

I have many reasons for hating fireworks and not the least among them is the damage they do to lives of animals who are terrified by the noise. It is the glorification of "bombs bursting in air" symbolized by the sight and ground-shaking sound and smell of smoke that fireworks is all about.  Surely we can find a way to celebrate the Fourth of July in less costly and dangerous ways than blowing shit up.

The Summer of Loss

I hold myself together during the hours of a crisis.  I cried a bit when I knew it would be the day I couldn't go on thinking Cyrus was okay, thinking he could make it through another day.  And  I'd been told he was on the maximum dose of pain medication. The level of antibiotics was as high as it could go.  Finally nothing was helping.  It was all getting worse.  And maybe he'd been suffering too long.  Maybe I was just selfish in keeping him with me to fill my need to have him here.

Every day since his death there has been the oddly timed firecracker popping off somewhere on the block, or just behind the house in the alley.  And the reflex holds to not react, so as not to feed his terror of anything that sounds like gunshot.  I look over the bed to see how he's doing.  It's just a reflex.  But I will always hate the Forth of July for all the terrified dogs. 

The orange and cream Tibetan rug that was under his tempurpedic mattress and cedar bed on top of that is now bare and visible.  It could be a treasure exposed, but it just seems like an absence, a loss, a minus in my life.

Yesterday I spent most of the day crying.  Loss is always my fault.  I cannot grieve, it seems, without believing that somehow, if I'd done something differently, Cyrus would have made it through another summer then a fall and then...  I know why I have to blame myself.  It's the phantom pain of the scapegoat.

I have a few more days of dog-sitting Roscoe.  He spent last night here.  We had a little slumber party.  It's probably the last time I'll sleep that soundly for a good long time.

Say Goodbye To Cyrus

I've known this day was coming for a very long time.  I knew when I got Cyrus that I wouldn't have much time with him.  He was kept alive in a shelter all of his first nine years under less than ideal circumstances.  He came to me with medications for the pain from his blown hips and shoulders and his terrible arthritis,  He's also on a pill for his thyroid problems.  In the past year and a half, he has developed a skin disease that baffles my vet.  We keep him on a prophylactic antibiotic to deal with the skin disease, but it isn't working anymore.  At this point I don't know what is hurting the most: his legs and hips or the sores that won't heal on his face.  But it became clear very early this morning that the pain is becoming too bad to bear.  He has been whimpering since 3:00 AM.  I can take the whimpering but I know it won't be long before the whimpering turns into screams and I can't do that to him.  He has suffered enough.

His time with me has been good for us both.  He has been, from the moment I got him to this moment, one of the sweetest, most loving dogs I've ever had.  He has been the strong noble silent type.  So I know this constant whimpering is a sign that he isn't that strong anymore.

Perhaps the timing of this crisis is a good thing, because the most difficult time of the year is rapidly approaching.  Cyrus is terrified of loud noises that sound like gunfire.  So the fourth of July and the twenty fourth of July are two times of huge fireworks extravaganza's of human stupidity and economic waste on an ostentatious scale.  I don't approve.  Cyrus is just undone by the noise.  He will not have to go through that again this year.  But I'll never hear fireworks that I don't think of his terror and the terror of so many other dogs when idiots are burning money with a big bang.

Creepy Jenny and I Are Having A Fight. So Far, She's Winning

Okay, call it Virginia Creeper or Creeping Jenny, but it's strangling my Mormon Plum tree and tugging on the phone line.  I don't care much about the phone line since no one in the main house has a land line, but I do care about the plum tree.  I have been working on getting as much of it cut from it's source and pulled out of the tree.  But still it's attached so high up in the tree, I'll need a much higher ladder or a cherry picker to get it all out.

I climbed the ladder leaning against the trunk and did battle with the biggest strands of it choking some limbs to death.  I removed a lot of dead tree along with some mighty long ropes of vine.  And in the center of the tree, as I stood on the top rung of the ladder I was torn to shreds by the thicket of deadwood at the center.  I have wounds to prove that this was a battle royal.  The vine won this round, but I'm far from done.

Can you blame me for hugging myself?  I obviously need a hug.  I just climbed down from the inside of a prickly tree, it's 5:30 and I've been working in my sleeping boxers and wife-beater.  I haven't combed my hair in two days.  I don't even think I washed my face today.  That's a gawd-awful picture of me hugging myself to show my wounds.  But it's the me I live with.  Obsessed in everything I do. And without any modesty at all.  I might as well garden naked.

The Boys

While the Eastern Boys are repelling down canyons in Southern Utah, I'm still laying brick and digging up lemon mint.  Anyone want some lemon mint?  It's crowding out the spearmint.  It's done-in the peppermint.  I've had it with the lemon mint.  Oh yes, it does sound as if it would be lovely.  But it only takes a couple of years in the garden to crowd out damn near everything else. And sadly, it's a pale imitation of a mint with a faint scent of citrus.

I'm still opening up vinca covered swaths of ground beside the gazebo to add more patio space.  My brick laying has taken a drastic turn from widening a pathway to creating a whole new patio. I hope I have enough bricks.

I've tried to explain to the Dartmouth boy (who is the one around the place during the daytime) the formula for keeping the main house cool through the summer.  It involves keeping sunlight out of the house.  It involves keeping the house all shut up during the day except the two farthest windows upstairs which should be just opened a bit to create a place for the hot air to go as the cool air from the swamp-cooler whooshes through the house chasing that flow of hot air out those two small openings in the upstairs bedrooms.  A lifetime of living with swamp-coolers has taught me how to make the best use of them.  Just by closing the shades on the side of the house that sun is shinning on will lower the temperature in the house five to ten degrees.  By opening the house at night to the canyon winds that blow from east to west, you can sleep comfortably with just the ceiling fan on low. 

But the Dartmouth boy has other things on his mind.  He's starting a new business in the food service industry and it's all new to him.  He hasn't worked in the restaurant business; he hasn't any construction experience.  So his firm timeline seems to be slipping away.  He's tried to hire several tradesmen to do the conversion from bus to rolling restaurant in a specific length of time.  Things are scheduled and don't go as planned.  I could have told him not to count on contractors to give you an accurate timeline.  There are always things you didn't factor into your plan that drag time out way past your prior deadline.

So he is worried about his bus and his timeline.  He can't concentrate on what the old woman is saying about keeping the house closed up in the daytime and dark.  He didn't hear me tell him about the way a small opening at the bottom of a window is enough draft to draw the cool air from downstairs upstairs to chase out the hot.  I know. It's counter intuitive.  And I am just a talkative old woman.

The boys are already a big hit in the neighborhood.  Neighbors know their names and all the girls and women find them charming.  They are eye-candy for the ladies.  And they're friendly in a breezy sort of way as they rush from one sport to another.  Seems they do it all, from mountain climbing to rowing.  And they have copious amounts of sports equipment for every imaginable sport.  I'm impressed and yet a bit annoyed that there are five specialized bikes in the fireplace room leaning against various unused pieces of furniture. 

The William & Mary boy comes from a military family.  I met his dad briefly when he was here for a fishing trip with his son.  He's a semi-retired high ranking naval officer, and he's a magnificent hunk of a charming man.  I had the pleasure of an introduction.  He told me the house and neighborhood remind him of places in Virginia.  He told me the boys love the house and neighborhood.  His son is a snappy dressing organized and orderly young man.  He's going places.  He's got his life as well ordered and organized as his bedroom and office. His clothes are hung up or put in drawers.  His bed is carefully made.

The Dartmouth boy is living in chaos.  His room is a mess.  It appears he needs a cleaning lady or a wife. Clothes are strewn about the floor like a thirteen year old.  Bed unmade and shoved against a wall, so making it up will be harder than necessary.  The drawers of his chest of drawers are haphazardly open. I'm so tempted to pick up is dirty clothes and make his bed but I resist the impulse. I know it will be taken as criticism, or worse, snooping.  And I don't want to be any one's cleaning lady or mother.  Yet I want to warn him not to take his girlfriend into that messy room.  I must resist this impulse.  I hope the chaos is a temporary problem that's related to his stalled business plan, because I like the boys.  I want them to stay awhile.

Draculanculus Vulgaris

I was shopping for dill weed at Traces and saw a huge version of this flower.  This is the only one of mine that has flowered so far, but if I give them the slightest care I might get more blooms. 

The Dragon flower (Dracunculus vulgaris) is an interesting member of the Arum family and a native of the Mediterranean region. The plant's name is associated with its resemblance to a dragon's tongue. This unusual plant is also called the Voodoo lily, Black dragon, and Dragon arum.

Its dark purple spadix emits a most unforgettable foul odor smelling of rotten meat. Fortunately, this rotten odor occurs only when the flower is mature and lasts long enough to attract a few flies, approximately one day. Flies are its chief pollinator of the Dragon flower.


So far I have noticed no scent of rotten meat.  I was told at Traces that theirs hasn't propagated, but mine has and mine is small in comparison.

Considered huge in every way, mature dragon flower plants reach heights of 18-30 inches tall. The 10-12 inch flowers range in color from deep maroon to nearly black and last for 7-10 days. You can expect to find the unusual Dragon flower plant blooming in late spring to early summer.

I can hardly wait for mine to get that big.  The woman at Traces said she has a collector of rare and unusual flowers who is in the market for one.  I may follow up with this, since I have several.  But first I'm going to give it a little care, since: This plant grows in either full sun or light shade and prefers moist, humus-rich soil.  My soil is far from rich and mostly hard as rock clay.  Oh well. 

Alien Life Force or Common Weed?

I can tell you this about it: It grows like a weed, self propagating and rooted in poor soil.  It tolerates dry soil up to a point.  And no matter how abused, comes back year after year.  I have shot it from every angle possible and also taken a shot of the spotted stem.  Anyone?

Domestic Archeology

I've been doing some digging, laying brick to enlarge my walkway and give me a bit more patio for the little house.  And in my digging I'm discovering river rock and slate.  These are a couple of photos of this work so far.  Most of the slabs of slate I've uncovered are too big for me to budge from their resting places, so I am using river rocks and brick to incorporate them into the patio I'm building without disturbing their resting places.

Father's Day? Not So Much

I was very unlucky when it came to fathers.  I had two of them.  If only they had been the gay kind, I'd probably have been better adjusted and liked men more.  I'd probably have chosen nurturing, gentle, kind men to get involved with.  But no, like my fathers, the men I married and lived with were selfish, bullying men who drank too much and felt a sense of entitlement just by virtue of gender.  Men of my father's generation did not help around the house.  And so the men I mated with refused to do domestic chores.  Men of my father's generation ruled the family, and women and children should know their places.

My sperm-donor father did not want me and never gave me the slightest attention unless I spilled my milk or spoke when not spoken to.  He was harsh with all of us, but especially harsh with me and my mother.  He never held me.  There is not a single photo from the beginning of my life until the day my mother and I ran away that shows he and I together.

My adoptive father wanted me, he held me, and then he used me to satisfy his sexual needs from the time I was almost seven until I started menstruating, at which point I became a liability.  That's when all affection stopped and he and my mother began to watch me like hawks waiting for the sexual monster they'd created to get pregnant and disgrace the family.  So no, Father's Day means nothing to me but a reminder of the power father's have to shape their daughter's future relationships with men.

Joe Barton, You Sir, Are a Pig

I woke up to the sound of Joe Barton's voice calling the BP twenty billion dollar escrow account, to guarantee reparations for victims of the Gulf oilspill, a shakedown.  I heard something similar from other wingnuts spouting bullshit yesterday after the President's Oval Office speech.  I hope someone is taking notes and keeping track of the senators and representatives running for reelection who are saying this kind of sick shit, but I'm betting that only a handful of the very rich think and those whose pockets are fully lined by the lobbyists for the oil industry, like Joe Barton, share his sentiments.  Joe Barton's district is not one that will be fouled by a black tide since the 6th district doesn't have a beach, but his biggest donor is the oil and gas industry. Joe Barton is a corporatist pig.  Joe Barton is a shill for the oil industry.  He does not represent the people of the 6th district of Texas unless all his constituents are oil men,  Any politician who wants to protect BP, should go down in infamy as a politician who sold his integrity to the only industry which currently has the power to destroy our environment and our livelihoods.  God forbid we give contracts and award the building of new nuclear power plants to private industry.  God forbid we let private industry run nuclear power plants. Industry's only constituent is it's shareholders.  Industries only job is to make more and more money in less and less time.  Safety is only important to industry in so far as it doesn't interfere with profits and bonuses.

Seems to me I have heard some of these same comments about the escrow fund (calling it a shakedown, a slush fund) from the usual idiots on the far right like Palin, Bachmann, Rush and Beck.  But any politician who lives in one of the states that will be devastated by this catastrophe and who refers to the escrow fund established to cover the cost of the clean up and reparations to those whose livelihoods have been ruined as a shakedown, should be run out of town by an angry mob of pitchfork wielding citizens.