Publishing in Today's World.

What do I know?  I know more than a thousand times, someone, somewhere, and in some pretty darn disparate places, has chanced upon or been led to my blog.  I wish I knew if they read it, but the stats only show visitors, and it seems, mostly, they are reluctant to comment.  (Seriously, despite my threats, I will not come after you.)   But, I was thinking about electronic publishing versus the usual query route.  Which I am spending a lot of time doing lately.  Thinking about it and querying.  (C'mon, Dit, just do it.  What do you have to lose?  The people that you write about can't sue you if you have nothing for them to take.  Right?)  And, what I was thinking, and I feel they are thoughts worth considering,is,  if someone commits to downloading your work off Amazon or Borders, or Avon, or Carina, then chances are they will  follow through and read it and maybe comment, and maybe review and maybe spread word of mouth.  I mean, we already know even negative reviews rustle up a spike of interest.

And the querying thing, how they go on and on about how you have to have that hook in your query, a single sentence that is supposed to sell them on your work.  How are they ever going to now how charmingly facetious and whimsical are my darling characters?  How quaintly singular is my style?  How my very naughty creations manage to waltz around the most major moral inconsistencies.  And still be loved and forgiven. 

Michael Connelly is getting so much flak for going along with the price guideline stuff. (Industry standard?)  I wonder if he will fold.  I wonder if he, personally, has anything to say about it or any influence on the outcome.  The industry guideline has already been shown to be way too full of holes and ways to get around it or over it.  You read about Amanda Hocking and you cannot help but be swayed and tempted.  Sure, she signed a contract, but she already made her nut and she was probably happy to hand off just a little of the responsibility.  I don't care about the financial or legal ramifications, so I think I'm going to go back and reread that long, long, article on how to load your work on Kindle and think a little bit more about whether or not it is too complicated.  And whether my Word software can do doc. or only docx. The querying thing is just damn dispiriting.  Especially when you pick up a book that someone already got money for, and it is the same genre as your's and your's is cuter and deeper and naughtier.  Shucks.  I guess if you are not your own best fan, then you shouldn't even be  trying.   Frankly, cover art is my biggest concern.

You Can Stop Now

You might as well stop.  You know I don't care anymore and you are just taking up space and being annoying.  You know, YOU KNOW, that once I stop caring, that is it.  I never start caring again.  So just quit.  Okay? 

Or is being annoying enough validation for your pitiful self?

(thanks, lisi)

Going Public

I am proud of my blog.  I am glad people read it.  I find  the stats fascinating.  I understand it is public.  There is stuff I have regretted posting and have removed, not sentences, but groups of actual long blogs.  (Yeah.  You WISH you had a chance to read those, don't you?)   But there are people who are just sick, and maybe they just surf blogs like I do, but I don't think this is random.  This is someone who knows what they are doing, and this person has their own pitiful and poignant reason for doing it, and what I feel is pity.  Pity and sadness for this person's tragic outlook on life.  There have been porno links.  No, you can't link to them, but they are in my referring sites.  I guess so if someone is looking at that particular porno site, then they can link here and see an occasional naughty word and get some kind of thrill.  Or maybe they are just trying to make their expertise more well known in a way that is so subtle it is fucking weird.  And then an occasional referring site that is medically curious but obscure.  It must be sad when someone spends time, especially when there are dishes to wash and friends to talk to and jobs to look for, to concoct this elaborate scheme and then the recipient totally does not get it and is only mildly puzzled since the creator of this circuitously planned and executed technological foible is worthy of only a brief passing thought. 

I am supervising the life of my ninety two year old dad and the job fills my life with so much guilt and worry and sadness and I have so little time to think of anything I would enjoy thinking about like a better way to end book two, that I so heartily wish the enactor of this pitiful little scheme is getting enough of a thrill out of it to make it worth their time and effort.  Good luck with that.

Patriotism

Tomorrow is Easter.   There was a kind of a cute cartoon in B.C. today about it.  I like when they get the message across and don't labor over it or overdo it or PREACH  or EVANGELIZE.  And it goes over smoothly.  Not like a clunk on the head.  And when you see subtle stuff like that, you kind of feel good, like you know what you know and you believe what you believe and it is cool.   A while back  I got all over someone and said they didn't need to worry about my soul cuz God gets me, and we are buds.  I am comfortable with that and I think people who think I am irreverant need to take some special kind of yoga class that teaches you how to unpucker your asshole.

So, somehow, I got linked to this rather erudite website, mises(dot)org.  I think it was some economic revelation that Louie sent to me.  (It is a website espousing the Austrian school of economics and I was able to get info from the resident economics major on why Keynesian won out even when it shouldn't have.  Politics and stuff. ) He always feels he needs to lend me some ammo when one of my intellectually superior friends takes aim at my simplistic way of thinking.  It is really kind of sweet of him.  Actually, I would have to say it is generous of him, and I can do that and suppress, at the very same time, my feelings that my intellect is just fine, thanks.    Anyway, the totally coolest thing about mises(dot)org is that it showers my blog stats with hits, and I think it is just great that all these people who get all philosophical about economics read my words.  I mean, not to be a reverse snob, but some of the stuff they write is right on.  And I really enjoy it and they go off on a bunch of tangents like movie reviews and it kinda gets you thinking there is a kind of a network that is holding us all together and it feels good to get a glimpse of it every now and then.  Humanity, maybe?

So, they were going on about outlawing certain chemicals and how it is counter productive and stuff, which we all know is true, and it was so spot on and enjoyable and some freak from some OTHER country (mises(dot)org if you want to look), starts in about whoa is this wonderful America you are talking about and goes on about how fucked up our country is.  Yeah?  I didn't take my daughter to the shaman for circumcision, did you? So, I got in a rant, oh, God, how I love that, with only one typo, but I used a vulgar word that I have not seen on there, which you have already seen maybe three times just in this episode, so I am a little afraid they may not print it, but I will go back and check, and I will feel powerful when I see it in print and I will feel validated when I see the spike in my stats.  I actually had forty hits from freaking GERMANY one day.  God, what fun.

I guess I have to search a little further and wider for the ego strokes nowadays, a subject I touch on  in my book, THE DEVIL'S STEPCHILD which is not yet in print, but hold on guys.  Soon.

So Happy Easter, Happy Spring, Happy Happy EVERYTHING.  No.  I only had one beer and no xanax and that was a couple of hours ago.

Well, I do whine.

Further Philosophical and Vaguely Religious Musings

I just read a blog and, in the person's remarks about who she was, she said, "I am a hole in the flute that Jesus' breath goes through." Where's that at? I am at the very least the actual flute if not the sheet music or perhaps the music teacher, or maybe, sometimes, the inspiration for someone's song. Who the hell wants to be a hole? God plays music on me everyday. I can hear it. You could too if you listened.

Pointless Blog Surfing

I surf blogs. It makes me feel very good when I see a family where the mom and dad look like they are both good looking enough to deserve each other. And it's a bonus if they have cute kids. But that's because I am incredibly shallow. But you already know that. And if it is a person who is documenting their fight with cancer or the story of how their baby had to have heart surgery, I often go in and say "God Bless You." Or "I hope you are better." Yeah, I need to get a life, but television is like razors in my eyeballs after about fifteen minutes and I am having such a bad agoraphobia attack and so little will power to shrug it off lately, that I cannot get myself to the library. I knew it was getting bad when three different book clubs started sending me boxes of books.

But if the blog is about the person's relationship with Jesus, or God, or The Holy Spirit, I take a pass. I want so bad to go off and say, "This is how God deals with you. This is what God is really thinking." But they won't believe me anyway, and they are just liable to think I am a little nuts. And then if it is about beauty or fashion, OMG. I NEED to read those when I am feeling I lead a shallow useless life. It is incredible.

There is nothing I can do to change the world. I have no influence. I muddle. I err. I live in a fictitious reality. It has no bearing on my life. It has no bearing on anything. It amuses and distracts me. What else is there? That guy (the one we knew, the one you were classmates with his kids?) that spent thousands and thousands of his accidental fortune on those Indians in the jungle in South America? Did he do any GOOD? Did he think he did any good? Will he die feeling like he did his best? I will die thinking "I played the hand I was dealt. I hoed my own row. I made that bed, so I slept in it" . I never won the card game and all my plants died. Well, no. One plant flourished and put all the other plants to shame. So maybe the rest died of shame. But they died. And I have insomnia.

Cynical and Drunk and Boring Someone in Some Dark Cafe'

My heart breaks for people who have a problem with alcohol, and believe me, I grew up in a household where the problems with alcohol were exhibited to me in painful detail many, too many, times over. But, ya know? I have tried and tried to get into that. Sick, huh? But I can't, just CAN'T get there. Two beers and a xanax can give a nice buzz, and no hangover, but it doesn't last very long. I guess the secret is to keep imbibing before the buzz wears off. But it is so filling, ya know? And, early into my marriage, and actually in my college years, I was kind of into it big time. But the hangovers and the migraines were not worth it. And these people that walk around with these "guts", yikes; no, thanks. Well, there are pills. Yep. I count them and recount them. Just to make sure there will be enough, so I guess that is just as sick as the alcohol thing. And YET:

I cannot write unless I am wired way out to there. And I love that. But, dealing with real life? I don't know about that. Maybe I like it better that way also. I just hate the ups and the downs. And someone is always there to say, "It's better than the alternative." And I have lived with the diagnosis for 37 years, and truthfully, I prefer it to some of that other stuff. At least I am there for the ride. And, I am at a point where I can say, when I am lower than snail slime, I will be back UP in no time, and I even believe it now.

Every time someone gets their life completely fucked up they call on me. Everyone, sibling, child, spouse, neighbor, friend, cousin, grandchild, parent. I am so sick of that. When I feel like I'm getting a little messed up, I turn to the bottle of xanax. Well, actually, they are only .025's and I AM 67, so I guess it is not so bad. And let me confide in you. I've been WAY worse. And I shouldn't have to explain myself, but I always feel like I have to. Catholic guilt? My husband and his family have this wonderful attribute, that no matter what happens, usually a major fucking disaster of more than epic proportions, (tape at eleven) It is ALWAYS someone else's fault. There are NO bipolar people in that family. NONE.

My husband has a slipped disc and is in terrible pain. Even I, who am unwilling to cut him any slack, ever, will admit that it is obvious. So he is taking codeine. And it wasn't helping so he is talking MORE Bigger codeine? And Five (5) five, days ago I said you better start with the fiber therapy cuz codeine is going to block you up big time. Ya know, being married to a huge asshole and then having that huge asshole be full of shit, and THEN, it turns to concrete within his body? Big problem. Epic problem. "Virginia, will you run to the drugstore and get me..." Can't help but interject a 'told ya so'. And I get the "No. No. That's not the problem." FUCK ME. Here I am again. And, ya know? He has to share, every freaking detail. And, then, "No. It's not the codeine. It's the sciatica." Yeah, Lou. Go in there and take a poll. Which molecule has turned to concrete because of the codeine, which because of UTTER complete immobility, which because of diet, which because of sciatica. No. Just fucking argue about it.
What difference does it make. Get that stuff out of there and shut the hell up about it. Yeah, I know, part of the contract is being there for better or for worse, and yeah, I know, I am an extremely bitter person, but WTF. I am so sick of always being taken lightly, being listened to indulgently, perhaps with a gentle chuckle, perhaps with eyes averted toward the newspaper to indicate I am interrupting the reading thereof, or being out and out right ignored and told I am wrong. I am never wrong. Well, I was once. It was in bio lab when that med student TA was flirting with me. I was in love with Ray. Yeah. Fuck Me.

The Beingness of Me

I don't know if it is how I was raised, or the size of my amygdala, or the mercury from the broken thermometer I played with, (you can make it walk down the stairs like a Slinky) but I think I have always had a concept of who I am, and I don't think it has changed much. I can remember talking to a friend when I was seven about what color I wanted to paint my new bike and I wanted it to be blue and green and she said that would be ugly. And, distinctly, I remember not arguing the point with her and thinking instead, she is just kidding about that or trying to be contrary, cuz blue and green would not be ugly. I didn't need to mention it to her cuz I knew blue and green would not be ugly. Just like, age five, telling the nun my coat is a pea coat. "And tomorrow it will be a "Q" coat", she responded. No insult. I knew she wasn't impugning my intellect or my vast five year storehouse of knowledge. I very simply KNEW, the poor thing, that her dad was not in the Navy.

And then, you are friends with someone forever and a day and you have shared way too much intimate detail about your life with that person, and suddenly, one day, you realize that the person she was friends with all these years is someone she thought you were, and not who you are at all.

I am so sick and tired of putting up with bullshit in the name of love. I am sure, if you did a search, you would find that phrase in my blog, over and over. I have given up so much of my life, and still do, in terms of time, of myself, of my energy, of my values, of my beliefs, in the name of love. And sometimes you have to. There is just no other choice. If you love someone, you have to be all fucking flexible and understanding cuz you love that person. But sometimes you don't have to. Sometimes there is not enough love, or it's the wrong kind of love, or the negatives outweigh the benefits that the "love" has been bringing you.

Sometimes learning these great truths can shake you to the core and leave you sobbing. Sometimes it can make you want to finish that book or that crossword puzzle you started. Sometimes both.

Japan

My stats say four people in Japan looked at my blog yesterday. I really would think they would have something better to do, but I am so flattered. Even if they hated it. Louie talked to one of his students who is stationed there and they are fine. He is in Sasebo, which I think is a Navy Base. Anyway, should anyone else chance on my words from that beleagured country, God Bless You and I am thinking of you and sympathizing with your many losses. I have also asked God to kick back a little and cut you guys a break.

Threads of Sanity

Every thread I participate in grinds to a sudden halt as soon as I comment. Sometimes not immediately. Sometimes I tolerate two or three retorts or explanations and then I stick the pin in it, and it's over.(Or maybe I pull the pin on it. Same effect. Boom.) I feel kind of bad about it cuz we can get rolling along and five or six people will jump on board their own special little intellectual busses and it starts to get interesting and my blood starts to warm up and my forehead gets that manic burning sensation behind it that I quickly become addicted to. But then I guess it is kind of like I abruptly throw up a concrete abutment or something like a concrete abutment and it's over. Actually I kind of seem to be overdosing here on the mixed metaphors, but it is a phenomenon that I cannot ignore and hesitate to explore. I do not allow anonimity, at least in my case. My real name is up there in bright red for all to see. And the fun part is looking at the stats and seeing two people in Serbia have been exposed to my attempts at verbal dexterity. Some one said I am like the voice of reason in the wilderness, but that sounds kind of like an over used cliche'. But is there any other kind of cliche'? I really would love to continue the arguments in most cases, but usually it descends into such utter banality, it becomes too tedious and boring to continue. Or someone will start to talk about taking off their clothes and making out in pudding and then they start to talk about what kind of pudding and really. (I so sincerely wish I was kidding about that, but I'm not.) How feeble an attempt is that to change the subject? Come at me with both barrels. I will face your firing squad. Why is it that as soon as I say something that is inarguably correct, you all duck and cover? I can't fucking stand it. And, when I am wrong, or if I think you have misconstrued something I have stated, I am first up with the humblest of apologies. And, seriously, this is the written word we are talking about. You just have to accept that I am being totally sincere cuz you can not see my lips silently forming the words, "you stupid asshole." Don't lay down your arms. Please. Reload. I'll help you. I'll lend you some ammo.

Hiding

One of the things that annoy me most of all is when people underestimate me. Sure I lead a pretty marginalized existence, trying to get the gas company to turn my service back on again, enduring ice cold showers cuz I can't talk 'em into it, and I can't come up with the money for it. So I guess that means I must be kind of dumb. To continue to live the way I do for so many years must mean I have some sort of basic deficiency. Especially when I am unable to define to myself what it is about my relationships with my family members that keep me "here" instead of walking away. Perhaps, rather than stupidity, I suffer from laziness, or fear, or inertia, or maybe caring. Whatever, Ditty, you signed up for it so suck it up and quit complaining. But when people assume that also means I'm too stupid to know how to turn on a computer, or use Google or follow a link, then I get pissed off. When people say or do things without considering the repercussions, the boomerang effect maybe. Well. Then who is stupid? Paranoia is learned. Brilliance is inherited. And facetiousness? Well, I can't come up with a quick answer for that one. I guess I'll have to look it up in the dictionary. But I think it may be one of those things that, if you don't recognize it right up front, then there is no fucking point in trying to explain it.

Roman Roads, French Language

I hardly know where to start. I will ramble. I will control it. I am obsessed with the war in Afghanistan. I am obsessed with the Restrepo film. I even ordered it from National Geographic (and you can too). I am obsessed with Major Daniel Kearney. All these things are very unhealthy, but at my age I don't give a shit. I finally get to shine here. They will probably never know the scope of my brilliance, but at my age I don't give a shit.

I have watched at least a dozen clips, four, five, six minutes each, or more, so I probably have seen more vid footage than the actual doc. The one where Sebastian Junger is crouching behind the wall with his eyelids shrunk into his head from fear, and we know, concomitantly, his scrotal sac and all its contents are also shrunken into the depths of his body for the same reason, and he is wearing this shitty Second World War Helmet that doesn't fit him, you know right away the whole platoon must hate him, and he sure as hell didn't read about when Pat Tilman got shot otherwise why would he be wearing that piece of tin that rocks back and forth on his head. Or did he pick it cuz it looked more cool than the reasonably effective helmets?

And (at least) TWICE, two different people, one of them Kearney, so they were probably instructed to pronounce it this way, they are asking the villagers where they are keeping the weapons "CASHAY". This is bone picking, but that is where we find the sweetest meat, and now I know why I gave birth to Gerty the Grammarian. The word is CACHE and in the Midwestern United States it is pronounced KAYSH. In the Western US it is pronounced KASH. Maybe on the Eastern Seaboard they say KASHAY, but we already know how wrong those people are. It is French for a repository, usually secret, or at least undisclosed, for things you own. KASHAY is cachet which is an air of self-possession or aura of charm that you know you have and flaunt. That definition is slightly editorialized. It is spelled CACHET. Yes, they do come from the same Romance language root. The thing is two different guys say it this way on at least two different filmed occasions. And I just have this fear that the Afghani translator is asking the Native Elders where they are keeping their charm or their sex appeal or their eyeliner. And the interrogators are always assuming these are the good guys who are going to tell on the bad guys when it is obvious that they are talking to the actual shooters, or fathers thereof, the sons of bitches, girly men, with an obsession for red hair, so perverse that when the old fuck's red beard grows out white, he holds on to the bottom two inches that were originally red, kind of like a Drew Barrymore hairstyle beard. Get a life. Get a fucking scissors.

And THEN:

Walking through a woodsy copse in rural England you are apt to come across a cracked earthenware jar filled with Old Roman Gold Coins and jewelry. This happens. But more often, you may come across a section of cobblestones, neatly and evenly placed which are the remnant of an ancient Roman Road which they built to make their lives better. Let's just quit the BS that we are building roads for the Afghanis. OKAY? If they wanted a fucking road, they had four thousand fucking years to build it, and they didn't because they don't want it, or are too stupid and primitive to understand the concept. They cherish their isolation so the men can walk around with their eyeliner and their dresses and their red hair giving flowers to one another, seeking "favor". And that may be why they are shooting at you and, anyway, you are just there to distract from sneakier, larger, more important missions up North in the same God forsaken Country. So get a clue and stop trying to fool us. Who in America is left that buys this shit?

The obsession with red hair, which our future president, Daniel Kearney even commented on--that I can understand.

Resentment

Some words need redefining I think. What exactly is resentment anyway? Is it the feeling you get when you are constantly doing things you have to do or feel you need to do instead of doing what you want to do? Well, aren't you choosing to do that? So why should you resent it? Is it just old Judeo-Christian guilt screwing it up for you? You would do what you want to do if you didn't feel guilty when you did, right? I am just not sure. I think I am a robot and whoever programmed me is a sadist. I do not feel I am any longer able to choose. I just march along.

Last Monday I took my dad to the Aldi store. They had lots of wonderful bargains as usual, but I could not buy anything since I don't get my pension check until next Wednesday, but I should not have resented marching around the store as my dad picked out his two cases of lemon lime pop and his cans of soup and his laundry soap and his toilet paper. After all, it is my lack of foresight and intelligent budgeting that causes me to be broke. That and continuing to be in the marriage I am in which I am in because I am lazy and weak. So I tried to not resent it. The shopping and having to drive my dad's car which doesn't have heated seats like mine does. He "hates" my car. (...he has said.) It was pretty cold and my husband had taken a spill in our drive way because of an almost invisible patch of black ice. My dad mentioned several times, as I steered him around the black ice patches in the Aldi parking lot, that he could not understand why Lou fell because there was apparently no ice and it wasn't even that cold. Later, I called him during the week and asked if he needed anything as I thought I might be going out. I was assured he was fine. Friday, when I checked in with him there was no answer. An always immediate cause for anxiety. Who knows if an 89 year old man might slip on a non-existent patch of ice? A few hours later, I was able to reach him and he said the ONLY time he was not near the phone was when he had to go out in the snow storm to try and unwind the Christmas lights I had left on his porch rail. (My Christmas lights are still under the snow as I speak.) My brother warned me not to bother with the lights, and I fought to suppress the unnecessary guilt feelings that assailed me. During our conversation, my dad mentioned that he had just gotten back from the store because he needed so much. (ONLY time?) This man has NEVER spent more than twenty dollars in the store at one time. And he feels it is better to waste dollars worth of gas to drive twelve miles each way, several times a week, than spend thirty or forty dollars at the least expensive store in the Universe in a single trip.

Sunday we took Chinese food over to my dad's for supper because I felt guilty for not visiting him more than once a week. These feelings are caused by the fact that I am the one that forced him and my sick mom to move North so I would not have to spend months on end in Florida during their illnesses. Silly me. Florida is so nice and warm. I talked my well-employed daughter Fran into paying for the Chinese food since I had done a lot of babysitting for her (again, MY CHOICE) and I was still awaiting the much anticipated pension check. (I miss my mom so much. She always asked us to bring Chinese over and she would pop for it. And she always enjoyed it so enthusiastically.) On the way into his home, because I had on my very warmest mittens, I finished unwinding the Christmas lights. I took them into the garage so the snow would drain away before storage. Dad came out after I did that to inform me that the storage box was on the porch (full of snow). I feel it is almost impossible for me to prepare dinner and take it over there as I have been doing because it is just too bleeping exhausting and it hurts like hell to wash all those dishes at the low little handicap sink in his kitchen. I bought a bottle of Palmolive liquid soap to do the dishes with every Sunday, but the past two Sundays, the bottle has been hidden (And I DID search for it) and I have been forced to wash all the dishes with the totally bubble free soap he buys at Aldi. It hurts his feelings if I criticize his choices. The dishcloth is another boring tale... Whine whine whine. All these boring attempts to justify my feelings.

Before we left to go to my dad's I called him to ask if he wanted me to stop at the store for anything he might need. He replied that he needed so much he would have to go to the store himself. Later I noticed the note on the counter and he needed three items. After Fran and I cleaned up after dinner, I asked dad if it would be okay if I took him to the store on Tuesday or Wednesday because I was not sure I would be able to get out Monday. I said, "You could go yourself but I don't think you should drive in this weather". It was snowing at this time, and we already had a ten inch accumulation. He replied that the snow was not so bad. His son Pete had gotten way more. (It must be up to their kitchen windows...) Then as I was walking out of the room, he said to my husband, "I can always eat cereal for three meals a day..." Fran drank water with her dinner and Louie drank the one beer in the fridge and Ben and I split the one can of lemon-lime pop we were offered when we requested that.

Where are those feelings of Joy a good helpful Christian should be feeling?

Whine: profuse, cheap and somewhat tart

Major barrel of whine today... Today is Sunday. I had a lazy morning and read the paper and did a few batches of wash. Then, around two, I left the house. I went to the ATM and got two twenty dollar bills because tomorrow is the last pre Christmas day to catch the garbage men and give them their Christmas tip. Then I went to Michael's for some note cards because I knew they had them for a dollar a pack. Walking back to the car I noticed that the minus five degree temperature and the gusting thirty mile winds kind of made my forehead hurt. I next went to Radio Shack and bought MP3's for the twins and the service agreement has the most attractive trade in feature. I bought a pink one and a red one. They are darling and I was so happy they still had them, but the twins will fight over the colors.

After that I drove to the hospital to visit my dad. I found a good parking space so that was nice and I did not have to walk in to the horrible wind to get in the hospital. Dad and I talked about his choices after he is dismissed tomorrow. His doc thinks he needs intermediate care so we hope he can get in the place closest to my house. He would prefer to go home and have me stay there with him a few days as the doc thinks he should not be alone. I wonder if it would be okay if I left him alone a few hours so I could go home and wash dishes everyday. After visiting a while and laughing over how badly the kitchen had goofed his dinner order, I left and went to Menard's to buy storm window film for my house as several storm windows seem to be missing or in that unreachable stack of windows and screens in the corner of the garage. They were closing Menard's so I had to rush but my cell phone only rang twice while I was there. I think I probably don't need to ever answer it again because I know for certain that whomever it is will just say, "Where are you?"

I first put the film up in my room and Lou commented that it seemed redundant since I had a storm window and he guesses we need new windows. But the process went well and quickly and the film did not get all stuck together. Then I covered one window in Fran's intermediate bedroom. She has purchased and closed on a new house. It is entirely repainted and carpeted and one bathroom is new and she apparently will be moving into it one item at a time for the next ten years or so. I told her I was a little tired and felt kind of woozy up on the step ladder so I would do the other window tomorrow.

Lou made me corned beef hash and two lacy eggs and they were perfect and delicious and I, of course, thanked him profusely a number of times, just to make sure he actually heard the thanks. I think maybe he did, but his usual unresponsive self did not reply to my remarks. As he carried his dishes over to the sink he did remark that the window over the sink was the one that really needed the storm window film. I of course took that to mean I had my priorities wrong in the course of action I took and I reassured him that I would cover it as soon as I got home tomorrow. While I was out, he was going to put in the new toilet, but there was a discolored patch of grout and he wanted to see if it would dry out, so the new toilet is in the living room and the old toilet is in the kitchen.

Then I took a Lunesta and fell asleep. It is three thirty am and I got up to do the dishes that had accumulated all day while I was gone. The twins left four pop cans and six plastic glasses among that lot. I wonder if I take any more Lunesta it will be an overdose, but I would like to sleep a little more.

Salesman of the Year

It is such a struggle some days, isn't it? Sometimes you just don't want to wake up. Sometimes you walk around like Katherine Hepburn, just lightly shaking your head from side to side, which isn't the palsy of old age. It is unadulterated disbelief.

Yesterday, a very cold Friday in January, after dark, someone knocks at the door. It is the source of most of Johnny Carson's comedy material, the siding salesman. I walk down the stairs, past the hysterically barking dog and the two granddaughters, both talking to me at once, about different subjects, with the phone in my hand, finishing a call to my dad, and answer the door. I turn off the phone, quiet the dogs and the girls, and engage in some trivial conversation with the salesman. I mention that (can't you see?) we just got the house sided but we are slowly replacing all the windows, although this is not a good time, financially. He explains that it is a free estimate, good for one year and the guy will call us on the phone before he shows up. Sure, I shouldn't talk to these guys, but our beautiful siding job did result from a "cold call", and I am interested in what this guy is peddling.

Next day, 10a.m., doorbell rings. The estimate guy is here, no phone call, and he will need egress to the house, can't just look outside. Louie answers and says well, then, lets not bother cuz it is not convenient for you to troop through the house right now, and they engage in further small talk about which windows and why it is not a good time financially, etc. Salesmen are salesmen cuz they like to talk I guess, and the guy tends to go on and on. Gives Louie his card, etc., then as he rattles on, Louie says, " I just cooked my Oatmeal and it is getting cold, so..." The guy says, "I just drove all the way out here from Oak Park, so I REALLY care about your bowl of Oatmeal."

Really clinched it, huh? Sure, we won't be calling Galway Construction when we need new windows, and , by the way, my cousin works for Feldco.

Lying

lying Current mood: pissed off If there is something wrong with a very expensive car, and it is not a safety issue, but the manufacturer recognizes the problem, and knows it is a manufacturing defect, and what caused it, and how to correct it, and the manufacturer has a policy about this problem, about how to defer inquiries and how to deal with the customer that is a series of actual, provable lies, and that when you do the research and find out the truth about the problem, and confront them with the facts, they continue to decry any knowledge thereof, and stoop to not answering your phone calls, hoping you will let the matter drop, THEN, why do we continue to buy cars from these people, and EXPECT them to fulfill the terms of the contract and produce a decent, safe product, as advertised? They have shown beyond any question of any doubt, that they are a bunch of lying, sneaky thieves, and we all know this, and accept this, and DON'T do anything about it but go out and buy another one of their cars. What is wrong with this whole concept? Why do we all, each of us, YOU, TOO, allow ourselves to be stupid about this and forgive ourselves for being made a monkey of, just cuz we want to drive down the road in something shiny and acceptable... I don't know. I wish I was back in the day when I was just glad to have a machine that moved and was licensable. Now it has to be pretty and on TV currently, and make it seem as if there is not actually a very stupid monkey driving it. When we all know better and GM is glad we know...

The Spectrum of Bitterness Part One

I just think I need to make a declaration, in case anyone ever happens to feel a little guilty about paying attention, which probably will not happen anyway...

I have decided not to ask certain people, anymore, "How are things?" or, "So, how is the family?" or other things of that ilk. Cuz, even though I have always been interested in what is going on with you, and am always asking, NO ONE ever asks me anymore. (The use of the word "anymore" in a non standard way, is a peculiar Mid Western, American coloquiolism.)

And, you are all forgiven, blanketly. (Made-up word) cuz I know anyhing I would have to tell you in reply to such a question is so terrible and depressing, and so unbelievable, that you are all sick to the death of hearing it, year after year. And I want you ALL to know, that I understand completely how you feel, cuz I myself, believe it or not, have also had periods of time in my life when I lived in LaLa land. The difference here is that you, and you do know who you are, have been granted permanent residence, and are thoroughly enjoying life in LaLa land, where as I keep getting kicked out. So, I guess it all boils down to my just being bitter and resentful, which I am sure all of you, and you do know who you are, will find very comforting since that is what you already thought.. .

The Spectrum of Bitterness Part Two

June 20, 2007, the spectrum of bitterness part two

I have decided that I cannot do anything the simple way. I cannot be friendly to my neighbors because one of them gets annoyed at me and I become the pariah. I cannot tell ANY of my relatives how I feel, because they all think they have it tougher and more often. I can't just have a kid. I have to have a kid with neurological and mental problems. And then if I try again, I can't just have a pretty and smart daughter; I have to have a pretty and smart daughter who has to drop out and have a child before she enrolls in college and gets on the dean's list and makes a ton of money. And my daughter can't just buy a house, she has to buy a house with a guy who is sick in love with her but for some reason doesn't want to get married. And my grandaughter can't just break off the faucet and make a geyser in the bathroom; it has to be a boiling hot geyser and it has to be at midnight and the shutoff valve has to be too hard for my arthritic hands to turn. And I can't just have a little progressive, normal arthritis. I have to have all my knee cartilage disappear before I am forty. And I always bump into the coffee table and I always have an allergic reaction to the only drug I MUST have. And whenever my dear very elderly father tries to help me, it ends up costing me about $500 and I have to keep it a secret so his feelings are not hurt. My mom said I reminded her of the guy in Lil Abner that walked around with the little black cloud over his head. My brother says I should count what I do have instead of what I don't have. Yeah, Like count the gas bill for $400 dollars, and don't count the $400 dollars cuz I don't have it. I get it...

I know, I know, you get it too, only you get it worse, and way more often...

The Spectrum of Bitterness Part Three

Warning: Dirty Laundry being aired. Don't like that? Don't read this...



Today, ah, a beautiful, perfect day weather-wise. Tried to garden... "Someone" took my landscaping staples. "Someone" said the water from the hose was inhibiting their plans. So I went to empty the wagons of the rubble I had left to molder. As I returned from that chore, which I carried out just as soon as "someone" suggested to me that it needed to be done, I walked up the stairs to hear my husband in conversation with AT&T, attempting to get the phone service reconnected. (What Barbour parka? What Filson Cruiser? What motorcycle?) And he was explaining to the customer service representative how much I weighed.



Why am I here?



"Someone" once said that no one is useless. They can always be used as a bad example.



Another gorgeous day in my life, shot to hell.