IDEALS

I feel like a fool.  I have always been good at rationalization.  Twice,  in the recent past, I have posted stuff in my feeble attempts at irony or jest and been taken seriously.  In another case, a person misread a facebook quote of mine and went into a well-meaning and correct explanation of the thing I was trying to be sarcastic about.

I do not have a sincere voice.  My real life voice is a joke.  I went to see a doctor about five years after my last appointment.  I said, "Hi, I'm Virginia."  He said, "Oh, I remember you.   The voice. . ."

My writing voice is intended to be facetious,  but evidence points to the fact that I am a complete failure at that.  Actually, I have heard from three readers that they got the joke in three cases.  Not a good percentage.

So, how am I going to steer this conversation back to rationalization or idealism?  Well,I just clicked on a book title in a blog.  Actually, it was a "website".  I think.  I am not too sure of the difference, and, no, Jonathan, you don't need to explain it to me.  The site was The Rumpus.  It is pretty liberal but kind of fun for writers.  It has infuriated me enough that I  have cancelled my subscription to it for years.  I have had wonderful discussions on it.  I found out, much later unfortunately, that one of the people I was arguing with was an author, unknown to me, of some repute. ( I admit I travel in the wrong circles.)  So apparently I read something on or about the Rumpus that caught my attention.  I am not subscribed to it, but am apparently subscribed to comments.  Really, that is all you need anyway, frankly.  It is even a bit too much info.

I linked to this book title which sounded interesting and that led me to two hours of linking through various sites connected, in sometimes vague ways, to the book title or author.  And I just stopped it by closing some of the many tabs I had thusly opened.  (I am relishing the fact that I have always wanted to use that word and have never before had the opportunity.  I hope it is a real word.)  (Aren't my asides annoying?)  And, for a reason God intended, but that has never worked too well on me, a light bulb just went off in my head.

I have gone on and on arguing in favor of certain principles.  I am calling them that because, although they may be philosophies or dogmas or truths or precepts or commandments or ideas, I feel, at the base of their structure, they must be principles.  (I flunked philosophy twice.  I have a former classmate who is a Professor Emeritus in Philosophy at a major University.  I am able to communicate with him.)  (I'll stop it now.) And, just now, when the light bulb went off, I realized that some of the things I argue the most fervently for, that shall for the most part go unnamed, for which I have published material with tedious documentation, I do not practice, have not practiced, and have no intention of practicing. And I seriously do not think I am a hypocrite. I think I earnestly believe in those principles and, in my own concept of idealism, those principles would be followed to the letter by all of humanity -- which, of course, they are not and never will be.  And, in my dotage, I will gladly own up to the fact that a lot of the stuff I have done would not have been any fun if I had not felt like I was defying some moral precept or principle.  And that makes me a sinner and that makes me a Catholic.  And this is not a confession.  This is just a light bulb moment that I have really enjoyed.  And that two hours of linking from a book title has given me a lot more insight to my self than probably the whole rest of my life -- a life that has had its share of ups and downs, mostly downs, but has been a great deal of fun and very interesting so far.

Yeah.  My meds have been adjusted.


Photo Attribution:  Google Image

Professionalism

So this journalism degree cost a lot.  I hope to pay off my student loans soon.  I got a job!

Scarp

 

A young man is walking along a stony beach on an island in the Outer Hebrides. It is chilly but there is a spring smell in the air. The beach is cross hatched with an occasional scarp. Farther down the scarp meets the water and the young man will not be able to walk further on the waterfront. But before he reaches the end of the beach, right around the place he first intended to turn and head back, he spots a very white baby lamb half way up the scarp. It is bawling piteously and very white but smudged with dirt and a little redness. It is in distress. The man, wearing a perfectly aged pair of Vasques, and happening to have an old thin pair of leather driving gloves in the pocket of his oiled cotton Barbour Mac, climbs somewhat carelessly, but with years of experience to support his efforts and grabs the baby lamb. He continues to the top of the scarp from which the lamb has fallen, carrying it over his shoulder and trying to hold its two back legs when he doesn't need both hands to keep his purchase on the craggy rock.

After he reaches the top and begins to walk over the barely perceptible path leading to his ancient but picturesque cottage, he examines the lamb and sees it is fine except for a few abrasions on its haunch from falling against the stone. He puts the lamb in the yard with the other few sheep he owns, some who have recently lambed. None of the ewes will let the baby nurse so the young man drives his little red car to town and buys special formula for abandoned lambs. He loves the lamb. The lamb loves him. The lamb thrives under his care and is always a bit brighter, a bit bouncier, a bit larger than the other lambs. Sometimes the other lambs, now young sheep, gang up to tease him, but they know he is the leader and usually they let him lead. He is a good leader anyway, they know. The next spring, when it is time to shear the sheep, the young man notices his favored lamb has a more lustrous, healthier looking crop of fleece than the others, so as he shears away, he keeps the wool from the special lamb separate. The wool goes to market as is usual. Walking around money. But the special wool he takes to his aunt's house who lives the other side of the tiny village. "This is wondrous wool," she says. "I will make a special sweater." And she does. Then the young man goes out in the world wearing the special sweater. As he progresses through the world many people say, "Hey, cool sweater." "Oh, what a lovely sweater." "Is that wool bleached? It is so very white."

Then one day the young man is on his way back home. He never stays away for long. He is on a pedway in an airport. Approaching on the opposite pedway is a lovely young girl. The pedway is very crowded but she looks up intently at the oncoming traffic as she notices a certain evocative scent of aftershave that gets her attention, and she spots the young man. "If I didn't have to run for this stupid plane, I would vault over this wall and make a move on that guy," she thinks, and gives him a delicious smile which he hungrily tastes as he moves past, returning a glimpse of self satisfaction over what might have been, as they both well know. As she moves on, the young girl, too busy to feel regret, thinks only, "God, that sweater he had on was gorgeous."

The End

HURT

I do not know if I was taught this, or if I realized it through life experience, but it is my belief that you do not hurt people you love.  I know this is simplistic.  We all know very well that we do hurt the ones we love.  (The ones we shouldn't hurt at all. . .)  And sometimes it is with acute deliberation.  We either need to prove something to ourselves or to another.  It is actually amazing how often, in retrospect, I have consciously done this, and the variety of reasons or rationalizations that I have used.  And then there is the big general question that haunts my every waking and sleeping moment.  "Is this love?"  Followed closely by its red-headed step-child, "What is love?"

A very well-known person who is respected for her advice column and recently had a best selling book got into an on-line controversy about a statement that she made.  Actually, she tried to stay out of the fray and the disagreement was largely among her commentors. A year later it cropped up again.  She is so much younger than I that I blame my general disagreement with her philosophy on the fact that my life experience has been extremely various, and I KNOW better.  I also seldom, if ever, had to do a brief hiatus with heroin to clear my mind in order to come to a decision. She is read by so many that turn to her for help in their moments of confusion, and her advice is always so unilateral.  I feel it is dangerous, and, in fact, when the subject was re-introduced this year, it was someone who started out by saying why they thought her advice was dangerous.

I think we never stop learning and it is not a good idea to think our viewpoint is right for everyone.  I had a conversation with my daughter today and we were both growing increasingly uncomfortable.  Finally I said I thought this was the type of conversation we should have over martinis. It was SO not mother-daughter, but SO chick to chick.  I kind of felt like I should not have said many of the things I said, but, on the other hand, I am glad she knows my viewpoint, and she already knows I am anything but coy.

Nevertheless, when I made the remark about the martinis, she said she wondered if the baby would wake up when we shifted her from one car to another.  We neither of us said, "Ahem." but it was an "ahem" moment if ever there was one.  Yeah, you DON'T want to know what we were discussing.  Not that the subject has not come up previously in my blogs and fiction, cuz it has.  But a blog, whether it is true or not, I like to believe is anonymous. The thing that we agreed on was that what ever may seem to be the right thing to do at one moment in your life, may in fact later be the wrong choice.  And you can never be sure.  How can you even think you are sure if you are over the age of twenty?  (Under that age, saying you are sure is utterly meaningless, even to yourself.) And you are never going to know until experience shows you whether it is right or wrong.  So, if it is going to hurt someone, for whatever reason, the one thing that I know about love, or even consideration or empathy, is don't hastily make a decision that will hurt someone.  Circumstances may change for any number of reasons and you may wish you had a do over.  I am betting many of you already know this.  I bet many of you wish you had a do-over for lots of events in your life.  I know I do.  It may be for a marriage, or a break up, or just for picking out what color coat you wanted.  Whatever.  You may not get the do-over, so stop and think.  And, take a freakin' long time to do it.  If it feels right is NOT a good reason to do something.  Not if love, whatever the heck that is, is involved.  Anywhere.

I do not fear pain.  I have learned a lot from it.  I know it goes away.  But still, there are times when I have a choice about whether or not to inflict pain.  And even though I know it will go away, they will get over it, be better for it, I hope I will choose not to inflict that pain.

But what the heck.  I do.  Don't I?


Photo Attribution:  Oh, fuck.  That's my grandma.

Criticism

I fear criticism. I take even the mildest criticisms very personally and let them hurt and fester way out of proportion to the actual purpose, meaning, or intent.  For instance:  people post book reviews when it is clear they did not read the book.  I don't understand it.  No matter if it is just stars or the reader of the review sees it for what it is, still it takes down my average.  And why do they do that out of a clear blue sky?  Well, I might as well ask why a random stranger drags his car keys through the paint on a random car.  Some thing is just wrong in the head.  And since there are now more people on the world, we see more of these strange people wreaking their hurt because of the way it makes the inside of their head feel. 

I mentioned to someone that I am not a good reviewer.  I don't like to hurt feelings.  That is all I remember hearing in my childhood.  "Her feelings are hurt."  I guess it is good they acknowledged I had them even as they blithely rode roughshod over them. If I promised a review, I will pick out a good thing about the book and emphasize it and give four rather than five stars.  (There should be about ten stars.  I can never make  a choice.)  But on a forum where a person asked for a critique of a preliminary excerpt, I remarked how good they were at telling a story even though I was not the intended audience.  I commented that there were a few minor syntax problems, but I wasn't there for an edit.  The asker went all postal about how they were an English teacher and how I could shove my syntax errors.  Well, the person did not put it exactly that way.  I put a negative review on Amazon for a book about Jesus that was some preposterous metaphysical theory and was a grammar disaster.  I felt so bad about it I went back and took it down.  The person got to say what they wanted to say, and anyone should get a pat on the back for that, much less having the courage to display it to the whole world.

Then there are the times I have asked specific people about specific matters in relation to one of my books.  When they said something was wrong and I objectively pointed to my research backing up my statements they got all hostile and said a couple of insulting things. This was a person who said nothing about imbalances or inconsistencies in my writing or story or method.  Just facts the person homed in on.  I thanked that person for their brilliant ideas and support and quietly rolled up my rug and folded my tent.  The very best thing anyone said about anything I wrote was "crazy good read" and I cannot get over it.  I always feel like I feel a certain way about something but someone doesn't get it.  When I am surprised at the way someone reacts to something --  for example, in the face of disaster a person commented to the person experiencing the disaster that God didn't give you more than you could handle and the person took it negatively and construed that the person was trying to explain to her that God wanted her to have the disaster because otherwise she would not have been able to cope with the outcome.  Like the disasteree had the mind set that the commiseration offerer was saying, "Better the plane crashes carrying the guy you might meet and marry in twenty years cuz you might get a divorce if the plane doesn't crash.  So here, God says, have a plane crash on me." So it is like a very brilliant light in the wilderness that I feel someone read my words and got what I was saying.

I write what a learned person said was "third person omniscient".  Yet I get remarks about my POV changing.  I can just see the person shaking their head over something I wrote and I feel like I wish I could have been there to hold their hand so they could fully enjoy the mastery of my story telling.  Seriously.  Don't think I am kidding.

I get sad.  A person is blogging on all the steps to publication.  The person put up an excerpt of the finished product.  POV changes?  Yeow.  Run on sentences.  Wrong word used for meaning.  Awful. Commas joining two sentences together when the first part needed a question mark.  I couldn't stand it.  And the person will get an editor and publish on Harlequin and buy their daughter an Arabian thoroughbred.  I made sixty dollars last month.

Have you read any of my excerpts?  Not asking you too.  If you were going to, you would have done so by now.  I put "Sex in the Shower", a part of one chapter in one book, a true excerpt.  One person said it was beautiful erotica.  Not.  Nice to hear, but it is just kind of a sexy, light hearted event.  One person said they couldn't enjoy it as anything but a how-to list since I didn't paint my characters deeply enough for her.  (Excerpt)  Another person said they felt sorry for me if I thought that was racy.  (Well, I talked about him elsewhere.)  Sex in the Shower has had more hits than anything I ever posted and that was it for written remarks.  I won't tell you the site I posted it to cuz I love it and they are cracker jack with commenting and always asking for more.

I just don't get it.  And I feel very sad that I know I will never get it, never understand the different ways people see things, because I feel like I should.  But I accept my own argument that it is all about me, and let the twisted little suckers go find their own way. That, as far as I am concerned, the way I see things is right, and I accept that is so, even knowing it may be right ONLY for me and as far as the general population is concerned, I am the twisted little sucker wandering in the wilderness.

I know I am doing something right because one of my older books has a spot in an algorithm somewhere and her activities have huge repercussions.  The other books, tiny repercussions.  So I hold on to the hope that this next one will do it.  I am hopeful about this Smashwords series highlighting thing they just invented, and this entire book, which is EXACTLY like all the others, has been written because I have a great title.  Well, we will see.  I am not on the ropes yet.

So fie on thee that has read not a single Elizabethan historical romance and dares criticize my little sweeties for hopping in the sack with more than one person in their lifetime. I had my day in the sun, and I intend to blind you with that reflection before I die.

Actually, this whole post started out because I had another huge spike in my blog stats and I do not know why.  I so want to know so I can follow through on it, but whatever.  I feel like I am through for the night.
I will generously repost for the day shift, although, I guess for my readers across the sea this is the day shift.

Y'all know how much I love you, right?  Cuz I do.  Thanks for stopping by.  Y'all come on back now, real soon.

Illustration attribution: emoticon from colourbox considered by its use on the web as public access. 

MALE PRIVILEGE

HUH??

Yet another male blogger went on record today as probably being a feminist.  He mentioned along the way that there is such a thing as male privilege and the males should consider male privilege a privilege and not abuse it. Above is an illustration of the only male privilege I recognize.

I am not a feminist.  I am a chauvinist.  I freely admit to being manipulative and opportunistic.  And, yet, I am completely able to say without any waffling or reluctance that everything I have I got.  I have never in all my many years been affected by male privilege unless I needed someone taller than I am to change a light bulb for me and there was no ladder nearby.  I am sure, if necessary, I would have been able to have all my sexual needs met in some way, were there not a male around for miles, or planets.  I think it is interesting that some people have a penis but I certainly do not envy them owning that.  And whether or not I desired to mess around with one, I am completely glad that they have the penis and not me.

I admit -- and you can all get out your placards saying "See.  She is just another shallow bitch" and start your parade -- that I have ALWAYS felt privileged.  Now I am a grandmother, but awhile back I was a very attractive redhead.  In fact, I was much more attractive than I ever knew.  And yet I was able to USE that factor to very good advantage.  Fuck all that bullshit about I want him to love me for my mind.  I had an IQ of 152 at age eleven and sometimes I had to ACT stupid to get some guy in the sack.  Yeah.  Some guy.  Sure I got married and played all the conventional marriage games and parenthood games.  I have been hurt.  I have been sad.  I have been angry.  But there has never been a male that was or would be less hurt or less angry or less sad in the same situation.

In fact, when I stop for  a very brief moment to consider all the many many things that cause a male's attention to flag, sexually, not to be too obtuse but what I mean is cause his dick to go limp, in retrospect, I got over my tears or anger with way less repercussion.

I wrote a whole book, very conciliatory in nature, and quite short, explaining why it is often necessary for females to tiptoe round the very sensitive penis -- not the very sensitive male that owns it.  Fuck him.  I have never noticed that males get more salary for an equal position or job. I am sure I can find countering statistics for every instance you display to me.  I think all the crap about men walking on the curb side of the walk when in the company of females in order to keep camels from splashing mud on the lady's fine gown is so much anthropological and cultural drivel.  The guy wanted to get laid.  Just SHUT UP.

This is all cultural, anthropological and genetic.  It all started to favor the gene pool and it was never done consciously.  It evolved.  And no, I do not believe cavemen rode dinosaurs.  Sure, people went along with this or that custom or manner so society would not frown upon them.  But, even then, it is/was done in order that the person so acting would be held in positive esteem.  He sought positive esteem.  I didn't.  I had it. I was born with it.  Maybe you were not.  Maybe that is why you have to buy into all this love me for my mind stuff.  Whatever.  It's your program, not mine.  Just don't bullshit me.

If you feel a sense of inadequacy in any area, deal with it.  Don't try to get a bunch of followers to march behind you in support in order that you may feel not so inadequate.  I am not saying you should go step on every one's toes.  I never stepped on anyone's toes.  And I keep my toes out of the way so no one steps on them.


John Scalzi's name has come up twice recently in this type of discourse. One conversation was about "rape culture".  I entered into that conversation.  It was based on some etymological error which I pointed out.  It didn't go over real well, but, it went unrebutted.  This other was him wearing some hideous dress.  Whether anyone so homely and unfeminine, made any kind of statement by wearing a very ugly dress is so far removed from intelligent discourse, it is to laugh.  I genuinely feel John Scalzi is a political suck up.  As far as wanting to get more females to read his books in the male dominated genre of speculative fiction, (or science fiction, or horror, or whatever they are calling it today) he may in fact be a whore.  Not passing judgement.  Just sayin'.

Beat your own drum.  I am not listening.  You shouldn't need me to listen.  My own music plays inside my very fucked up brain, and it is all I need.  When someone echoes it, I send money to iTunes.

Male privilege.  You wish.

I will repost in the a.m. for the dayshift. 


Photo Attribution:   I will get back to you on that tomorrow.  I am in too much of a pissed off hurry right now.  I do have the guy's (sigh) name  (Steven Amman) and the name of the site it can be traced to. If it violates a copyright, please inform me.  I will promptly remove it.  There are plenty more where that came from. 

Driveway

 

We have a very long drive way.  Well, almost this long.  My castle isn't quite that large.

 Every year the vagrant black top guys come by and they ALWAYS have just enough left over for my driveway.  I don't pay any attention anymore to oil-based, tar-based, water-based, squeegied, brushed, poured, sprayed. I only care about the $$ and  I want it to look nice for a year and a half.  We fall for their sales spiel every two years.  The truth is, we would never think of it at all if one of these itinerants did not knock. 

This year, August!  So hopefully it won't all be stuck to the bottom of the snow when we shovel as did the October job.  One year it disppeared so fast that I went on line and did research.  There is supposedly some stuff in the UK called some kind of paint that lasts forever, but I couldn't find it over here.  One person snidely offered that if I wanted it done right I would dig it out and put in four inches of gravel over three inches of sand covered with three inches of bitumin-something.  Okay.  He is probably the same guy that answered when I wanted a quick fix for the downstairs shower.  If I want it done right, I will dig out to the studs and put up cement board and copper pipes and such a kind of tile with such a kind of base.  Instead I chose to epoxy it which almost killed me with the fumes and peeled in three months.  So yeah.  Now we are going down to the studs anyway.

One year we tried to coat the driveway ourselves.  We got one sixteenth done and it was about ten buckets of the "airport" quality gunk.  But now that I recall, runways are concrete.  At least they used to be when we lived next door to that hoodlum in Oak Park that had the O'Hare contract.

And these two guys with nice trucks that will probably re-poed in November, are the biggest babies.  They have knocked on the door six times.  "Where's my son?"  I should have told him he was in the sack with the widow next door.  "Can I have  a bottle of water?  I need to take my meds."  That's a new one.  Then dad wants a bottle of water.  "We didn't even take time for lunch or dinner."  "No.  I am not giving you dinner."  "We have to go get gas for our machine."  "There's gas under the porch for the lawnmower."  "No.  We need special such and such."  I think they went to Oklahoma for it.  They just got back and the motor is running, but one guy is screaming at the other.  I wonder what they do, besides flee, if they accidentally spray my lovely siding with gunk. 

The perils of home ownership.  We are too old for this.  We should go live in one of those senior high-rises, but I love my yard.  And Louie has been away so long, it seems like I have to make too many decisions by myself.  Oh, wait a minute.  He has never talked to a driveway guy, or a pool guy, or a siding guy, or a roofing guy, or a window guy, anyway. 

So, my brand new uVerse system doesn't work which is the second chapter in the cable saga.  My neighbor came over to chat about it.  Apparently they decided to install it, fiber optic cable or no.  The service man admitted to my neighbor the wiring in this neighborhood was inadequate.  What is wrong with people?  Let's fight this war even though the bullets haven't arrived yet.  Maybe if we pretend to shoot it will work for awhile anyway.

And then I notified the notorious nationally known Twinkie Police force of Lindenhurst that I  had to leave my cars in the street and she wouldn't take the report because I didn't have the license numbers. Yes, old lady that cannot walk on the sticky new driveway, get your flashlight and stumble across a hummocky acre of grass in the pitch dark to get the plate numbers so we can distinguish your cars from the other two thousand parked in the street illegally on the 1800 block of Hazelwood.  So I said just give me the tickets, biting off the "fucking" part as a descriptor, and I commented on how cooperative (fucking cooperative) they are every time (every fucking time) I have to call (I have to fucking call) them.  My daughter's brother in law is the Lindenhurst attorney, so bring it on, Twinkie Police.  I should have said, (Yeah, we always think of this too late) "you will know right away.  It is the driveway lined with Twinkies."

It's Not Delivery. It's DiGiornio

So I was just setting, waiting for the results of my biopsy and eating some left over pizza.  Boy, that delivery man was SOO tall!  Oh, no.  Wait up a sec.  It's not delivery.  It's DiGiornio.  Anyway, I was going over the autopsy results on the recently discovered Kraken.  I am great at multi-tasking.  When we captured him he was still alive, but we "accidentally" killed him. So we decided to do an autopsy for the sake of Science and all else that is good and holy.  We, so far, have found out he was a male, very lonely, and did not eat ships.  And it set me to thinking.

We use people.  Everyone does.  I am sure you do not admit it to yourself.  I do.  But I feel I have always "used" people, and I was known as a master, to prove something to myself.  I think most people use people to prove something about themselves to others.  Like, "See? I am desirable."  Or, "See, I am attractive."  I always came up with, "Yeah, I can do that too."  Something I had to remind myself of repeatedly it seems.  Especially after all those misbegotten breeding experiences.  (See what I did there?)  But it was never, "she can have three little boys and I can't".  It was always, "I am going to be successful at this damnit, or die trying." Of course it all set  a lot of huge, nasty, rusty, menacing wheels in motion, but that was other people trying to prove stuff, not to themselves, but others.  Of this I feel very sure.  But.  I may be wrong.  I have been. I may be wrong about who was trying to prove something to whom and why.  Although I am pretty sure I have a handle on that one. I may even be wrong about it yet today.

I have a close relative who, due to a wondrous genetic legacy, is extremely smart and very beautiful.  Also cute.  And she is blessed with the kind of metabolism that runs like a mother so she is easily able to maintain her tiny, well-proportioned physique throughout the rigors of her very busy life. (Well, Boot Camp is not so easy.  I'll grant her that.)  She has a wonderful life.  Actually a beautiful life, a handsome hard-working, somewhat self-deluded husband, two amazing intelligent and beautiful children (kinda bratty, tho) and a huge gorgeous house with an actual swimming pool that is not a plastic and metal over-sized water dish set on the ground.  Of course this is all off set by the fact that she has a high stress job that takes a lot out of her.  But we do have to help The Higher Power keep the old yin and yang in balance.

The thing is, this girl seems to have everything going for her.  But she "wants".  She is not sure what, but she knows something is missing.  God in his heaven only knows how she got the idea things had to be completely perfect.  But I think maybe it is human nature to "want".  It might be kind of like "hope".  You just can't keep going without it.

But along comes a situation where she is being "used".  It is actually not harming her or her family, since it is a long-distance mostly imaginary thing for the users.  (There are two of them.)  There are people that come up short in so many departments that they have to invent scenarios which contain people and things to "blame' and to compare themselves and each other to.  My relative got into this mess completely innocently.  It was actually totally my fault, but I too was acting innocently and somewhat altruistically. (Or so I tell myself.)  It was a kind of on going drama that was a mere distraction for my relative.  Sort of like a soap opera that you tuned into every now and then.  But then the whole thing blew up like Krakatoa and it became instantly apparent what my relative was being used for.  People who could not take responsibility for their own misdeeds, mistakes, errors, misjudgements, suddenly needed a place to focus all that negative energy and this relative was a convenient and very carefully set up target.  She was "thrown to the wolves", "thrown under the bus," -- whatever.  Fortunately she has enough going on that she is very generously able to understand and forgive these people who have such troubles they are blinded to what the troubles really are and why they have them.

It just leads me to wonder, are these characters using her and others with deliberation because that is their modus operandi, or is it completely innocent, that they are so sad and lonely and troubled that they unconsciously seek a focus to ease their pain, their guilt, their unhappiness.  I will never know.  No one could offer me any explanation at this point that I would be able to accept since their credibility, if it ever existed, has taken a hike.

****

In other news:   I am going to try to incorporate my Clueless blog into this one since it is not publicly linked and it is messing up my stats.  Plus, it is great, pithy stuff no one should miss.  Just ask Jonathon Wilhoit, the well-know book reviewer. Also, the FINE WHINE title should be getting a lot more blog hits since a "blogger-columnist" of questionable integrity and intelligence who shall remain unnamed but whose initials are JK has stolen my words as a sub-heading for the self-centered posturing and moaning about her life that passes off to readers of The Chicago Tribune as reality.  Talk about trying to find a focus for blame.  But that is another story. One I am uninterested in telling.  She does a great job on that all by herself.

I am happy to announce that the majority of my blog hits now come from the google search for dittymac.blogspot.com.  I think it is important.  Don't tell me the truth.


Attribution for adorable illustration: "Kraken; the Early Years"
www.neatorama.com

Just For Tonight

My heart is sore and achy.  

I wish I had a magic wand.  

I want to make everything all better. 

Image attribution:    psychcentral.com

Undeclared Rivalries

On facebook, pretty much every one recognizes my daughter Francesca as Gerty the Grammarian. She will not let an errant apostrophe go untrounced.  Sometimes our communications are wordless, and yet the feeling of being judged is still present.  Recently I sent her this photo just for fun.  I titled it "Fergus Monsoon" for a variety of reasons.

Always trying to do me one better, this was her reply:

She didn't grace it with a title. 

This is not Gerty the Grammarian.









This is:  

Here's What I Remember

Fiddling, dawdling, wasting time, procrastinating.  Can't do it.   Even when I am trying to do any of those things I am being bombarded by images and words that set my mind on fire.   I picture those little fibers on the endings of my nerves getting ready to fire across that little void to accelerate a thought through my mind and body and I wonder why they are not all burning up and shriveling and crumbling to ash.  How can I think at all?  It is like the worst construction caused traffic jam on Route 45 that you could ever imagine topped by the dude on the motor cycle weaving through and giving everyone the finger.  Where is my gun?

From facebook and the comments therein concerning a recent court case, I segued into You Tube and Jon Stewart, who, if you ran his shows at random and continuously, you would notice a very confused person with a huge heart and a swirling mind that is making a lot of money and not really knowing why.  It's not because he is funny.

So then there was the clip of his first show after the twin tower attacks and, as labeled, it is hard to watch.

I am tired of the absolute polar opposite opinions concerning this Florida trial surrounding a young man's death.  There is no voice of reason anywhere.  It is really not much different than throwing the Christians to the lions.  Perhaps the lions didn't eat that guy because God gave him a special protection blessing for having been a good boy and saying his prayers and not having impure thoughts, or perhaps the lion could tell by the way the guy smelled that he would not taste very good so he passed him by.  Who are you to say?  What do you think you know about it?  What do you believe?  Hey.  I don't care.

The wonderful thing about facebook, and facebook's a wonderful thing.  It's tops are made out of rubber.  Its bottom is made out of springs.  Oh, no.  Hold up.  Fucking cadence side tracks me all the time cuz I have all those classical melodies fighting for space within my brain case and my heart. Anyway, as I started to say, you can block people from your facebook account if you don't like what they say or how they say it.  I do it almost daily.  Not you, of course.  I would never block you.  I love you and respect you and admire your divergent opinions, most of which I don't care about.  I only care about mine.  I only care about my power to rule, my power to change what is unpleasant into what is pleasant according to my own value system.  I continue to care although I see the whole world going to hell in a hand basket and me standing here, might as well be naked, but I'm not, and unable to do a fucking thing about it.  Just watching and thinking. What can one person do?  Vote?  My grand daughter cancelled out my vote cuz she wanted a sticker and had no clue who was running for what on which platform.  We are doomed.

Why do certain groups (and if you are one of my more avid followers, you have seen this remark elsewhere) have the power to form million man marches and elect bozos to rule the country and others just stand and watch the panorama of destruction?   Why are we letting any one take power from us?  Or are we giving them power?  I am not wondering anymore what we are doing.  I want to know why.

When I was first married, I lived in a huge courtyard apartment complex on the west side of Chicago.  I stood on the balcony of my third floor apartment and, looking eastward, I saw nearly the whole horizon billowing with black smoke.  Not Mount St. Helens.  The City of Chicago.  Set on fire.  On purpose.  Deliberately.  And to what avail?  A beloved leader died in an unfortunate way and people decided to burn buildings, break windows and steal things to mark the passing of this peace preaching man.  WTF.

And if I put quotation marks about the word people, I would be branded a racist and a hatemonger.  Again.  WTF.  Or no perhaps, in this case, fuck me.

Here is the voice of reason ringing out in the midst of all the polarizing remarks regarding the verdict in the recent highly publicized Florida trial concerning the demise of a certain male under unusual and questionable circumstances:

When someone is pounding your head into the pavement, reach for your wallet, while praying for his soul and your deliverance, and take out your FOID card and show it to him.

Is everybody happy?  Well I should say.


PHOTO ATTRIBUTION:   z3news.com

Story: I am a slow learner

I used to walk my dog every day until he got a little crippled. There was a ferocious Rottweiler around the corner that scared me. He was huge and could clear the fence if he tried. He barked and snarled like he hated us. So I started to carry a knife. Not a handy folding penknife or a lethal looking switch blade. No. Too reasonable. I selected a non-folding small fruit knife with quite an extreme taper. I put it in my pocket. I felt quite safe for several days. Then one day, I leaned down to tie my shoelace and stabbed myself in the thigh. It didn't bleed very much but did drip a little. It hurt like a son of a bitch. I hobbled home clenching my thigh. Lesson to be learned? None apparently. I had no knife when that huge blue pit bull tried to swallow Henry.

And further proof that my learning curve is in fact a straight line:  my husband has a food broker pal and Louie, who is sort of retired, helps him at food shows. Lou is a glad hander and Chuck, the broker doesn't like to speak up. So Lou brings stuff home. This amazing chocolate BRIX is formulated to go with wine. Forget that. It is damn good chocolate. I am huge on the raunchily named "mouth feel" and this stuff is incredible. It comes in a solid brick. (Get where they are going with that?) and you have to break off a chunk with something like a cheese knife. I usually put it on a saucer. I was feeling lazy and reclining. I had a super sharp paring knife. I didn't bother with the saucer. I left the chocolate in the cardboard box which was resting on my reclining body at about diaphragm level. I inserted the knife into the chocolate and met resistance. So I poked harder. Yeah. I stabbed myself again. Only a bruise this time. Excess avoirdupois.

Fugue - ing Around

I CANNOT believe the last thing I posted was that Feature and Follow thing which I never do right anyway.

I am walking around every minute I am awake thinking "me, me, me".  I am going to research whether it is possible to self-induce a fugue state.  I use this device all the time in my novels.  Every time something gets overwhelming I just have my adorable heroine go fugue-ing off, barefooted, into the Redwood National Forest, or The Great White Nowhere, or the Saint Louis Cemetery.  Myself, it would hurt my feet.  I am too constantly painfully aware of what is going on in my life.  I feel like a huge China (Ming Dynasty preferably) vase and I am aware of that tiny crack just starting in the bottom and if some one puts one more drop of water in it, Kablooey.

Obama said no fireworks on any military base anywhere.  I would have taken up a collection to have them at Great Lakes.  It is pivotal in my year.  I had a sign from Above.  The fireworks in the neighborhood had just started and I was cleaning (and cleaning, and cleaning, and cleaning) Louie's room and a halogen bulb on the hall light just out side his door blew up gloriously.  I choose to consider it a sign that God (my bud) was reassuring me that Obama was wrong.  (I used the word wrong here because I thought some of you might be offended or consider it disrespectful if I said "an asshole" instead.)  Obama is undermining our nation.  You didn't hear it here first, but I think the fireworks thing was just another step on his part -- another chip at the foundation of our Nation, another drop of water in the China vase of our beloved country.

Anyway, the news about Louie is not too good.  Physically he is coming along, but the memory problems and the personality change are obvious and I do not notice improvement.  For instance, he can't text.  And all I get is "Can you hear me?" To say I am discouraged is putting it mildly.  And my father calls at least once a day to check up.  Finally, I had Lou call him today because my father cannot hear my voice on the phone and all I get is "I didn't get that." Lou spoke to him after both my brothers tried to explain and I actually went over to his house to explain and my father has not a clue as to what happened or is happening.  "Are you home?"  he asks Louie.  "No one is ever there when I go over there."

I have no more patience and I cannot think  of a reason in Hell or on Earth or in Heaven as to why I should try to muster up patience.  When have I ever been on the receiving end of that?  I am bitter and pissed and I feel, honestly, I do not deserve this.  Misfortune?  My cup runneth over.  My mom said I was like that Little Abner character that walked around with the rain cloud over his head (Joe Mfblsztk?)

Every one, EVERYONE overestimates my ability to cope. I have been hearing that shit for too many years.  Sure I am crying poor me, but when some one says, "If any one can handle it, Ditty can" when my heart is so broken I feel like I don't even want to recover, then I feel like it is time to say, "NO.  I can't cope.  It hurts.  I am tired of it.  Stop it.  God, or someone, stop raining this shit down on me."  Yeah, I know, every one has pain in their life.  Some of you have pain that is fresh and raw and may seem unbearable.  The difference is, I have had it in spades.  I can match you and double.  And I know it is bearable.  I am just fucking sick of it.

Image Attribution: www.artsjournal.com

Feature and Follow Friday

For feature and Follow Friday I am supposed to respond to the question:  What is your favored reading format?

I honestly cannot say.  I love to pick up a book, new, used, (love Alibris) and library.  Also love my Kindle.  I will never catch up.  But I am getting very used to reading on my iPhone, mainly because of a lot of stuff going on lately.  It is the most convenient and not at all uncomfortable when you get used to it.  Uses up battery like crazy tho, and the Kindle has pretty good battery life. And, actually, with the iPhone, I love to stop reading where ever and know it will open exactly where I left off.  (That is also true of the Kindle and paper bookmarks, so what am I saying?)  And I can switch over to a game or Netflix whenever I need a break. 

I just have to read.  Did you ever notice the cups and napkins at Chipotle?

 

Today's featured blog:

 

Death Lists

So my husband, Louis, had a fall today and went to the hospital in an ambulance.  His pelvis is broken but not near the hip socket, so, instead of pinning it, they are "just going to let it heal". 

I wonder if, because of his age, he has been put on one of those death lists I have been hearing about. I am not an orthopedist, but I have to wonder how quickly weight-bearing bones heal in a slightly over weight man of his somewhat advanced age. What is a little lingering intense pain when you have out-lived your "usefulness"?

I will not sarcastically thank the voters of America until I have more information.  I'm good that way. 

  

Illustration attribution:  crosbiew.blogspot.com

An Award

As a sort of preface, I must first state that I have been banned from the Reddit subgroup "writing". It did not say why, so I have made a formal inquiry.  It did state that I have been banned by "those who write".  I kind of don't get Reddit, but I do get referrals from the site, so I give it a go every now and then.  Anything any of you know about Reddit, please enlighten me.

Then I must say thank you to Lord David Prosser who was kind or deluded enough to nominate me for the Super Sweet Blogging Award.

As with all of life's pleasantries there are rules to abide by.

1.  I must thank the person who nominated me.  OK

2.  I must answer 5 Super Sweet questions.
 
1.  Cookies or Cake?
         Usually cookies but I am fond of cake, just not carrot.  It seems so subversive.
 
2.  Chocolate or Vanilla?
          Vanilla, hands down.

 3.   Favorite sweet treat?
         I am currently unable to resist the Little Debby Chocolate covered wafer snack cake.  It has to
        do with a bizarre ritualistic way of dissassembling the snack before consuming.

4.  When do you most crave sweet treats?
         Bedtime.

5.  Sweet nickname?
         Well, my husband usually calls me, "JesusChristVirginia"  but I have many nicknames, none
          very sweet.   The one with the least amount of negative subtext at this time would probably be
         "Myrna".
          No explanations will be offered.


3.I must include the Super Sweet Blogger Award in my blog post.

4. Nominate a baker’s dozen of deserving bloggers.

Roy York
http://grandpayork.blogspot.com/

Wally Tomosky
http://waldotomosky.wordpress.com
He has said he doesn't have time, and I am not checking back, but he is sweet and a wonderful story-teller.  I should cheat and list all his blogs separately.

Sherry at The Redhead Riter cuz she has stuff like this on her blog:

And lots of other various things, funny and informative, and cuz she is a redhead.
http://www.theredheadriter.com/

Shayna Gier cuz she has been very helpful and works hard and is a cutie:
http://shaynagier.com

Darcy Perdu cuz she visited my blog once. And might again.
http://www.sothenstories.com/

Brenna Wildung because she said she enjoyed the last award and was kind enough to participate.  Her blog is amazing.  It looks so professional and is very interesting.
http://two-tall-tales.blogspot.com

I am kind of tapped out here.  I would have to go to Wordpress for more addresses and I have too many windows open.  So if you have time to do this, thank you, and pass it on to a deserving friend.

5.Notify my nominees on their blogs.
I did this in a somewhat half-assed way.

Father's Day

 

I wanted to put this up for Father's Day, but our printer was on holiday, so here it is.  In the white coat is Louie's dad, Louis Philip Sr,( Don Luis).  He died in 2001 at the age of ninety.   In the dark coat is my  dad, Robert McDaniel who was born in 1919 and is still with us.  In the middle is me, I was right around thirty, and I will not say what year this was.

It was in Fort Meyers, Florida, and both sets of our parents lived in Coachlight Manor.  Let me tell you, for sure, they had some high old times, and I am so glad to have this picture that caught them in their prime. 

These two men, both, were excellent rogues.

Paying Attention

I notice that several of the people who's blog I read also read mine.  I am pretty sure not everyone who hits on my blog reads it.  I could be wrong about that because every now and then I will get a nice comment from some one who got what I was writing about.  I sometimes get comments that make me think they were reading a different blog altogether, but it is nice to know my words can mean different things to different people. And then there are the New Zealand Plumbers.

Someone just went over a million hits and offered a little contest event to celebrate.  She did mention that it would be nice if each of those hits was a dollar.  I have mentioned it would be good if each of my hits represented a book sale.

I just went to a book promo site and literally begged people to purchase one of my books that was not doing well.  I really have no expectations that it will help, but I am beyond being reasonable about that book.  It is not my usual fare, but it is a quick little non-fiction read that is fun.  I honestly thought it would be a big deal.  I have read so many articles about gender issues lately that I almost think I started something.

In a blog that was about giving a certain type of speech to certain audiences and the pros and cons of it, I chose to comment not on speech giving but on the content of the speech (politicizing gender issues).  No one commented back but two comments after someone left a comment about gender imprinting that was almost exactly what I had said in my book.  That affects me the same way that writing about washing the counters and having someone I know is a reader write about washing counters the next day.  Ditto:  boys haircuts, pets, serendipity, destructive storms, etc.  Sometimes I think it is flattering, but sometimes, when it is really noticeable, I would like a nod. (Yes, Roy.  I saw your wonderful reference and link.  Have you thought about cloning yourself?)

I have been on what, for lack of a better term, I will call the downside of having interest in this project.  I look at my past results and I know exactly what I have to do to duplicate that.  It is time-consuming and boring, but it is not difficult and it bears very sweet fruit.  Yet, I sit, I mull over the phrasing of a scene in my mind.   I know I should write the scene down and then work over it, but I don't.  I mull til I fall asleep.

Sometimes I think it would be nice to be noticed, to have people pay attention to what I have to say, but lately, ironically, since I have more blog hits every day than I ever imagined, I kind of don't care.  Well, it isn't really that I don't care because I know how I react to nice reviews and good numbers or compliments, (I probably get much more pleasure out of it than it deserves, but I think I already wrote that blog.)  but I am wondering what difference does it make.  Anything I do, some one else can do, does do, is doing, is maybe even using me for inspiration.  I know I never thought I would come up with a game changer so I do not know what is lacking in my approach to the process right now.  I do know that I am dying to reunite Maisie and her husband and will play solitaire on my iPhone for an hour and a half to keep myself from doing that.

If you don't eat your meat, you can't have any pudding.
You can't have any pudding if you don't eat your meat.

Balance Sheet

How is the weekend going for you?  Mine started out with my grand son hitting a wonderful home-run.  That joy was off set by his team losing their first game of the season.  They had lead the whole game but the opponents drove in several runs in the bottom of the sixth and were ahead by one.  Then they decided to call the game (not play the seventh) because of the time.  They are a Little League team and bound by a pretty strict set of conventions and rules.  Of course, I have to keep bringing up that those rules have been bent a little at times depending on who the umpire is and who the coaches are.  So the opponents were given the win.  Well, yeah.  Of course I am bitter and pissed-off.

Then I noticed a sale on my cornerstone book had caused the ratings to rise dramatically which was super encouraging since I am so sick of the whole writing routine, tired of promotion, un-inspired to continue the story. Of course I am totally prepared for the numbers to drop like a rock the minute someone else sells a book, but it is reassuring to note that particular book has a place in the Amazon algorithm.  And today Smashwords posted a bunch of sales on almost all of my books, maybe all--I didn't look too closely--from their many affiliates.  So I guess I am still in the game.

I worked on cleaning up the Buick which had taken a pounding from the South Dakota trip.  The Dawn-vinegar combination works very well on ground in gummy bears. But the which vacuum cleaner is the best routine was exhausting since it involved so many treks up and down stairs.  Sometimes this house seems to have way too many staircases. 

It cooled off a lot today.  We were on the edge of some storms that we could see and hear, but we received only a few sprinkles.  I prefer full-blown, roof-shaking thunderstorms, even if they do shear off my deck and crush my car.  God, isn't that fascinating to read?

Not much else is new.  Exposed myself to an hour long presentation on the Narcissistic Personality Disorder which was illuminating.  It is hard to find much illumination at my age, and I think y'all can guess which parts of my life were illuminated.

So I am just stopping by to pimp out my blog again.  You are on to that, so I am not going to try and sugar coat the reality.  Thanks to all of you, though, for stopping by. 

PETS

 

Once in my very long lifetime I took part in choosing a specific pet for our family.  He was a lab and lived a very long and comfortable life, except for the time that little Maltese bit him on the testicles.  That was touch and go for a while.  Literally.  Anyway, I knew when we walked in to see the puppies my husband would choose the black one moaning piteously at the back of the enclosure over the other seven that were jumping and barking trying to get our attention.  And, seriously, that is the one I was drawn to.  He was a very good dog.  Not a good watch dog unless you were hoping a burglar would trip over him and break his leg.  And hardly ever acted spiteful as dogs can do with such aplomb.

But there was that time. . .   My husband was overseas and I went to a wedding.  I dropped my daughter at my mom's on the way.  Amos was angry about being left alone and left a large loose movement of his digestive system perched on the floor just inside the front door in such a way that one would not hit it when opening the door, but could not avoid stepping into it.  I know it was carefully planned.  I am surprised I did not find sketches of the floor plan and notations.  But, he was just a good dog, other than that event, (which may have been justified,) in every other way. Usually. 

In those days, it was not so common to get dogs fixed.  We lived in a semi-rural town outside Chicago.  A neighbor we were on friendly chatting terms with had a female lab, not fixed.  Amos was not fixed.  The neighbor was walking by with her dog one day just as I was walking out the door with Amos on lead.  She hollered from the end of my very long and sharply slanted driveway, "Is he fixed?"  I hollered back that he wasn't and she said her dog had just finished her season, but sometimes the males still hit on it.  He dragged me down thirty feet of concrete on my elbows.  Other than that, he was just a good dog.

Now,  to get back to my point, as I so frequently have to say in these blogs:  In all the many years I have been married, we have seldom been without a pet of some sort at some time.  My cocker spaniel got his knee surgery before I did.  I loved that canary.  She would talk to me.  She killed her husband. We had a gold fish I wept over.  Still feel really bad about that.  But each time a pet moves on or passes on, I say never again.  At this moment I am sitting here with a dog at my feet and a cat on the windowsill.  How does this keep happening to me?


Photo attribution:   happyathomepet.net