Here Comes My Nineteenth Nervous Breakdown

I got the courage to call and make a dr. appt. today.  When I was through my hands were shaking.  I had the same problem calling the dentist last week.  It is totally the phone.  I am not at all nervous when I go to the dr. or dentist.  Anyway, I guess I have to tell her the .25 Xanax isn't cutting it anymore.  I am sure I could go back to "handling" things drug-free if ithe shit wasn't piling up so fast.

I received notice Monday that my driver's license that I just renewed in April is being revoked so I won't be able to drive my wonderful Rendezvous that I love beyond reason, that we put $450 in last month and another $500 the other day so I could pass emission control so I could renew my plates for $112, and today we noticed the water on the rug in the car wasn't because I left the sunroof open, but, in fact, is pouring in from God knows where everytime we start the engine.  My driver's license is being revoked because I sold a car to my daughter's "boyfriend" and didn't take the plates off and he ran up dozens of tickets before I retrieved the plates.  Allstate called and said he was also in an accident, but Allstate took my word about the sale when I sent them a copy of the sales contract.  City of Chicago has received that from me at least four times, but they say I am still on the hook since Jody never retitled the car.  Can this be true?  It seems it is.  Chicago petitioned Illinois to revoke.  And they are.  So I am SOL.

Louie goes in next week for a myelogram (sp?) to determine the exact nature of his spinal damage to prep for surgery and, damn it, they better do a good job of fixing it cuz I have a  bathroom that needs to be  tiled.  We are waiting final word on the mortgage work out and trying to figure out why our electric bill is $350 a MONTH.  Dannie has to move back in,  If my dad tells the story about the lady at the DMV that demanded his DD214 for ID once more, I WILL jump off the porch, which I know will only maim me.  And my dog just pooped under the dining room table without so much as a 'by-your-leave'.

WTF

Blather

I am trying to figure out something that is really bothering me.  I read too many blogs on too many websites.  It uses up way too much of my time.  But I need to fill up the time since it seems my great professional writing career will never get off the ground, and was, apparently, just a reaction to the wrong medication.  This is disappointing to me, needless to say.  And I am not quite throwing in the towel yet.  But I haven't had the courage to look at my manuscripts in quite a while.  And the urge to start another is nonexistent.  The whole time I was writing so prolifically, I was wondering where it all was coming from.  I kept getting these ideas and running with them and asking myself where I got the ideas.  I will probably find out in a few years  that I actually wrote down word for word some story I read thirty years ago that was fermenting in the depths of my brain.

Anyway, the latest thing is that I have no patience with people that I personally feel take themselves too seriously.  Why is that?  Don't I take myself seriously?  You know what?  I don't think I do.  I think I am afraid to.  I think I am way too ready to back down.  Not that I will surrender my principles or beliefs.  I mean, I honestly do not care what you think about that. I go with what I am comfortable with.  But some people tackle a philosophy and they dissect it ad nauseum, and end up with all these semantic distinctions and I counter with an absolutely true, practical, real-life example of what they are talking about and they cannot respond in a realistic way.  They dissect my language or point out a typo.  And I feel like I climbed up the pole and waved  the flag and they all walked away.  And a couple of them stopped and peed on the pole just to accentuate their disdain. I feel like they threw in the towel.  (Maybe so I could wipe up the pee) And I guess I want them to say, "Yeah, Virginia.  You are right.  I was just being an asshole.  I just like to spell long words correctly."  But, seriously, even I don't believe that.  I mean, maybe they have a point.  I am just prepared to shoot them down and show them the errors of their ways, and I back it up with the truth.  I always make sure the gun is loaded and cocked and I have an extra clip handy.  Otherwise, I would not bothering aiming, much less entering into the fray. I do not even start on my theories about how I think God feels about it.  Like recycling, and light bulbs.  What would Jesus do?  I can't even get there.  No one will even say, "No shit.  That really happened?  You must be making it up."  They just blather about lumens should be Lumen and watts should be Watt, like each and every light bulb is actually a tiny biography.  C'mon.  This is reality we are dealing with.  I can't fucking stand it.  We are going down the tubes here and all I've learned is that von Mises took on the economy and bureaucracy but would not address social issues.  How can those things NOT all lean on each other?  If you buy the cheap medicine you don't get well as quickly.  Usually.  A + B = C.  Not A is one side of the coin and Q is the other side of the coin and that constitutes the Tao of knitting, or web surfing or porn addiction.  It's blather.  Stupidity is one side of  the stupidity coin and stupidity is the other side of the stupidity coin and that is the freaking Tao of freaking stupidity. 

And it seems I've been inspired to clean up my language just a little bit.  Fuck that.

And?

Here is a rejection letter, from an agent that handles women's fiction, that I did not retype.  I deliberately did cut and paste to preserve the quality as  best I could. The quotation marks are my own.


"After having a chance to read this, however, I am afraid I am going to pass on this project. While there were certainly elements of the story that were interesting, and, I just didn't feel the story was right for what I am looking for. The end result is that it just didn't appeal to me as much as I had hoped."



I am, of course, bitter and dissappointed.  Harlequin erotic novels are a biggie for the particular agency that sent this to me, and my sweet little stories don't cut it.  My point is, though, that EVERYWHERE you read about how perfect and concise your query letter MUST be or it won't get a second glance.  And truly, I SO much want to know what the and. . . was going to be.  It sounded like he was on the verge of saying one more positive thing before he shot me down.  But all I get was "and". . .  So, let's let the judges pass judgement on themselves here.  I almost want to include this dude's name in my tags, but ain't gonna happen.

Me Me Me Me Me

I'm so special.   I mowed the whole freaking lawn myself.  I planted all the flowers.  I took out the garbage.  I did all the dishes.  I cleaned the counters four hundred and eighty three times.  I got the license.  I paid the bills.  The car was  fixed with my money.  I cooked those amazing brownies.  Gee, my hair smells terrific.  Righteous rack.  See, I told you she dyed her hair.  I can't see that far.  What did you say?  I know.  Isn't she darling?  Just like her mom.  Really smart, too.  Not that that matters in the long run, but you know. . .
No, I don't know.  I never had a zit.  I never used that stuff for diaper rash.. You keep thinking you can get away with it.  The floors need to be stripped.  My Alfredo is better.  When a grown man says, "I wish I could. . ."  Some stuff you never forget.  Some stuff is important.  "Isn't that skirt a little tight?"  "You are the smartest person I know."   "I wish I could. . ."

The Totally Mental Aspects of Mental Disorders

I had a pretty nice day yesterday.  Spent some time with Francesca and Delaney.  Brought the Taylor family a great dinner and they even shared a little with me.  Bought three boxes of Good and Plenty.  The price has dropped from a dollar to ninety-eight cents, so I snapped those mothers up.  Ben had an amazing ballgame, hit two doubles, his team winning by two after  falling behind twice.  Then, as I prepared to retire for the night, putting all the daily papers into the recycling, (those suckers pile up so fast) deciding on my sleepy time cocktail of pills for the night, I notice a little white circle glowing against the golden fibers of my deceptively clean-looking dining room area rug.  Picked it up to discover it was a Welbutrin!  Guess that one didn't make it into the mouth that morning. 

I have yet to find a doctor, and I have asked at least six, that can explain the time-release effects, or even the specific meaning of the words to me.  It has always turned out to be a discussion in semantics.  I felt pretty good today, got all that EPA and DMV stuff cleared up with out a hitch and bought some peanut butter cookies, but I had to wonder what missing that pill yesterday meant.  I know when I was taking that crumby, crumbling, smelly, yellow generic, I was in a prolonged semi manic state that in actual fact provided many pleasant side effects, a huge weight loss, a million brilliant words carefully stored on memory sticks, a new attitude about partnership and "marriage", a new sense of me.  So I am almost tempted to try skipping a few more of those pearly white puppies and see what happens.  But I know when it happens I am unable to judge what is happening, whether or not I am enjoying it.  So, bummer.  I skipped a pill.  No big deal.  The whole bipolar thing?  No big deal.  I  guess. . .

LINK

This video took my breath away.  You HAVE to watch it.  I think it should turn civilization on its ear.  I cannot believe my reaction to it. I have to think about that. The phrase "open-sourcing" sounds so simple, but has to have more ramifications that I can possibly be aware of.  Please PLEASE leave comments for me.

 I hope it empowers people while there is still time for it.



http://www.ted.com/talks/marcin_jakubowski.html

NEWS OF THE DAY

A New Service

I mentioned before how I can bring the longest comment thread on almost any blog to a screeching halt.  It is kind of the same dynamic as always having beautiful weather when I am in Florida.  I told my folks that whenever their community is having a string of awful weather they should pay to fly me down there because I have never had anything but gorgeous days.  I don't mean the two instances are at all similar.  It just kinda seems like it is a force I unconsciously generate.  And I am betting if I thought about it long enough, I could probably harness it and make my fortune.  Too bad I am too fucking old to care. 

In the meanwhile, if you are a blogmaster, and you are too polite to say, "Shut the f- up folks and go home," link to me and I will drop one of my little bon mots, and believe me they are little, and the conversation will come to an abrupt end.  This one site, I do not know how I ended up on it, but it is a bunch of stodgy philosophers and I get more hits from it than any other, and I have done it twice this week and it is only Tuesday.  They go back and forth with me a while then drop their pens and walk away.  But I look at my stats and it seems they enjoy it cuz they keep coming back for more.  Too bad that particular demographic isn't big on reading contemporary love stories.  I'd a been translated into German months ago.

Life with Luigi

Conversation

Me: It didn't pass.  I knew they wouldn't pass it if the check engine light was on.  Since you are on Peterson road could you stop at the DMV?  They will give you an extension form so I can drive to get it fixed.

Person:  You have a month to get it fixed.

Editorial remarks:   Does that mean you won't stop at the DMV?  Does that mean you don't want to stop at the DMV?  Does that mean "Go to the DMV yourself, even though I am going to drive right past it in eight minutes and you are forty miles away from it"?  Does  that mean, "The fuck if I'll do you a favor"?  Does that mean, "Fuck you, Virginia"?    Does that mean "Fuck your stupid car, Virginia"?    Does that mean, "Fuck you and your stupid car, Virginia."

 Correct answer based on documented history:  All of the above.

Randomness

I don't suppose I should use this as a notebook, but I have put a few things in files in my mailbox and marked a few things as favorites and been unable to find them and I don't want to forget these.

A guy in a movie said the pain is better than the regret, or it's better to live with the pain than the  regret.  He was trying to tell someone to go for it.  Not to be afraid you will get hurt.   I went to a counselor once who told me that I was afraid to care because I would be opening myself up to hurt.   I guess it is a good thing I was afraid, otherwise I guess I would have a hundred times more hurt than I do.  If that was possible.  And I am pretty sure I went along with the not wanting to regret part.  I am pretty sure some of the things I have done that weren't in the rule book I did because I didn't want to regret not doing them.  And I don't regret doing them that's for sure.  Some of the brightest spots in my memory are in that file. 

Then, I will try to get this straight as it was Henry David Thoreau, for whom my dog is named. "Some people live lives of quiet desperation and they die with their song still inside of them."  Thank you God for these 26 letters.  They form my song. 

Not so sure about thank you God for my dog.  He is not exactly a delight.  I am not in the mood to sing about him after what he did in the front hall last night.

I Fell in Love--Just a Little

I had the purest feelings of rage and frustration earlier today due to butting heads with someone in my life.  It happens so often, I have learned to shrug it off, move on, and kind of forget about it.Water under that bridge, missed opportunities, being in a rut, etc.  Then I decided to wash a few glasses, the kind of instant gratification we all seek and need at times. I''ve been using the dishwasher a lot lately, but just now needed to be the dishwasher.

I have a huge yard and a large deck.  The deck is high, due to the split level nature of my home, large, and gated because of small children and pets needing to be confined to it at various times in our occupation.  The gate and the view are right outside my kitchen window.  A sparrow lit on the arch of the gate.  Nobody pays any attention to sparrows do they?  Except God.  My gate is painted a grey we call 'elephant'--kind of a beige-ish khaki color.  The sparrows brown and grey feathers complemented it perfectly and he was so close.  He didn't know I was looking at him and he cocked his head so cutely and his beak was so sculpted and of such a color as if from aged metal and he was so perfect and lovely and I felt a warmth in my heart that is so rare lately and he flitted off and I smiled.  It was just such a nice moment.

Now I will go back to being 'Ditty' and google "His eye is on the sparrow" and distill my life back to 26 letters and move on, and drinking some clear water from a sparkly glass will maybe seem even a speck more enjoyable.

Validation

An excerpt from a blog I comment on:


Virginia Llorca, on May 24, 2011 at 10:41 pm said:


My grandpa took me to Madison Street to buy shoes because my mom said I needed them. I said she wants me to get those and he said which ones do you want and I got the white Minnetonkas with the Indian beads.



Reply

Mary Lynne, on May 25, 2011 at 10:36 pm said:

I love that.




Now if I could get that response from an agent or a publisher. . .

Panic

I surf blogs, as I have mentioned before, and many of them have the niftiest templates.  I consider that stuff way too techy for me, but today I had to fiddle around.  There are so many that offer all these free templates.  I wonder why.  If you like it you are not going to go back and pay for another are you? 

So I found one that seem just creepy and personal enough for me, liking to make statements as I do, but not wanting to be accused of trying to make a statement.  Caged, getting free, kind of gothic, kind of worn around the edges.  Anyway, it showed up all cattywhompus and I couldn't figure out how to adjust it, and then I tried to get rid of it, and was able to, but no, it was still there.  I totally feared that I would have to start over and develop a whole new site, and was worried if I could transfer my archive and it dawned on me how important these words, or this expressing, is to me. 

Finally, or at least at this moment, I think it is showing up pretty even.  I had a lot of hits today tho, and I am sure they think I have flipped.  No.  I am sure anyone that has visited here at least once already knows that. And that is probably why they keep coming back.

Anyway, I mowed the lawn yesterday, and it is rather a large lawn if you go back to the creek, which you are not supposed to because that area is supposed to be available for the proper native wetland plants to thrive and do their soaking up the water thing, but the neighbors on both sides mow to the creek, so I do not want to rock that boat, being neighbor to this family being burden enough,  and I love the endless yard kind of effect.  So do the deer and the coyotes, and the foxes. But what I am getting at is this nerve thing going on in my hand that feels like you forgot to use the pot holder when you took the cookie sheet out of the oven, but only in this very localized place between two fingers, and Fran gave me two Doctor Layton games for my birthday, so I have been on DS way too much lately, and my hand hurts like a son of a bitch, so I feel like currently God does not want me to write.  He also does not want me to pick anything up off the floor as He always makes it fall at least once and  then makes me do it again.  Aging is such pain.  Literally.

I need back story for my non-dystopian, post-apocalyptic novel.  Any suggestions?  I am on the verge here.  I promise!  It is bubbling up almost to the edge.  I know it.  And I feel that what I do will be the right thing for me to do.  That is what I should have been telling myself all along.  I don't have to be who people think I am anymore.  Maybe trying to cut back on those meds was not such a great idea.

So how do  y'all feel about the single space after the period rule change thing?  I don't really care one way or the other, but the two space thing is very deeply engrained.  Think for just a moment on this.  If I could get used to doing only one space after  the period, how much wear and tear would I be saving on that fucking nerve in my finger?

Fictionalizing Life

My father was a police officer in a medium-sized, well-known suburb of Chicago,  Illinois.  What the heck--it was Oak Park.  And for part of his long career he was what he used to call "plain-clothes"  which means he was a detective. 

I love to read police and crime and legal procedurals.  I do not ever even contemplate writing that type of story because I do not want to do anything research laden.  Never did.  Specially in school.  But, yet, in every story I have written so far, some element of law enforcement is present.  And then, my husband was in the Navy,and,for many years,our rather interesting social life centered around that universe. (Did you ever have someone that had a crush on you promise to drive his helicopter over your house at a specific time to say Hi to you?  And actually do it?  Kind of flattering  when you are 23. )  Well, that part of my life, of course colorfully enhanced, also appears in my work.  So, I guess it is a part of 'write what you know' or just that it is such a huge piece of my personal history.  (I LOVE my personal history)  But, never the less, I would never endeavor to do a novel with that sort of basic premise as so many are now doing.  There is even a series about the FDIC and when I inquired what they meant by FDIC they explained it was indeed the Federal Deposit Insurance Corporation, also a part of the history of my marriage.  But there are too many experts out there waiting to pick apart your work and jump all over any errors you may make.  Even though I clearly state that I make stuff up. 

Still, it is too bad I have such a strong mind set against it cuz  I AM A GREAT DETECTIVE.

C,mon, guys.  You know what I'm talkin' about.

Survey

I posted a survey type question on Goodreads(dot)com addressing some questions I have for people who are now primarily doing their reading on Nook or Kindle type pads.  If you own a Nook or Kindle or some type of electronic reader, I would appreciate your going to that site and answering and giving your opinions. I do not own one, but know several people who do and am actually more interested in it as a publishing venue than a reading material source.  I am trying to find out as much as I can about it, so help me out if you can.  I share the information I gather on a variety of web sites, so don't say anything that is not for the general public.  The forum is "Got Nook??"  and I always use my real name.  Do this just for fun, okay? 

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.

Burdens

All of us walk around thinking about the burdens we carry, the things we must do, the things that others depend on us for. My usual focus is taking care of the house. It gets me so mad that the entire burden of keeping this home livable is on me. No one else cares if the Equal packet sits on the floor for days on end. And if I didn't pick it up and put it in the compactor or the recycling, dang, there it would still be sitting.

Suddenly, it occurs to me, well...maybe not suddenly, maybe it has been creeping up on me, the focus I have had is probably just a distraction. If we walked around thinking about what the real burden is, we would be so overwhelmed, we would probably be paralyzed.

We have a different kind of household, with children and grandchildren, and it is a constant struggle to try to be fair and to not pick favorites, to not show preference to the cutest, or the smartest, or the most needy, to not differentiate between my offspring and someone else's offspring, to not look at some of the residents as being someone else's burden. So far, this particular part of my life has been pretty successful. The kids and the grands pretty much feel as though they are on equal footing, except for an occasional occurrence when some of the grands realize they don't have an actual parent rooting for them. So it is a difficult situation for them also. And they share in the success.

Today, the youngest, five, Ben, was out on the lawn with a neighbor child. This neighbor boy, Cody, six, and a head taller, has caused a lot of problems for us, and we frankly do not like his style. We do not let Ben play with him without supervision. Grandpa was sitting outside watching them and came into the house for a minute. Mom, Fran, looks out the window and sees Ben beating the stuffing out of Cody. Ben was made to immediately come into the house.

As we were preparing to leave to run errands, we put Ben into the car with us, and the discussion that started when he entered the house continued. Fran tells him he will not be allowed to play with Cody anymore. Fran does not ever want him to play with Cody, but we try to work out compromises so Ben does not become an asocial hermit.

Fran comments on how Cody affects Ben's behavior and Ben tries to explain that they were playing, that Cody beat Ben and then Cody told Ben to beat on him. Fran actually slips into "Momese", a language she tries to avoid, and says, "If he told you to jump off a bridge, would you do it?" So the discussion segues into the fact that in our family we do not think beating people up is a way to play. I say that Cody's family is different from ours, and that they think it is alright to play that rough, but in our family we try not to be that mean. (We CERTAINLY do not bring up the subject of Cousin Terry's broken hand...) Fran, Ben and I talk a little about how some families are different, and not every one's family thinks the same things are important. Then Ben says, "I think Cody's family should have a grandma living there. Then it would be alright because grandma's know everything." I make a vague "hmmm" noise, and Fran and I are speechless for a few short seconds, and I think, but in retrospect, am not too sure, that Fran said, "There!"

The discussion then went far afield to avoid pitfalls and discomfort. This is totally the type of thing that I cannot even think of. How much of an effect am I having on this child and what will it mean in his life? To just go on and keep up the same old routine is so necessary, but perhaps it will stay in my mind enough to make me a bit wiser and keep me from jumping the gun so much in the future.

I so much have the reputation of putting foot into mouth. Christmas day Louie was being SO nice. I couldn't understand it, and it is kind of pitiful that it was SO noticeable. I so much wanted to say, "You are being so nice. Do you have a brain tumor?" But I didn't say it! I just quietly enjoyed Louie's being so nice.

Maybe we are all growing up together.

Life and Living

I am having a really difficult time with getting my mind comfortable with the concepts of life and death. We went to the funeral of my husband's aunt, who was 88 and had a wonderful, colorful and very useful life. She had some of the worst things imaginable happen directly to her, but she left a very competent, and lovely daughter who is a credit to her in every respect, and she has three of the greatest grandkids you could imagine, one noteworthy accomplishment after another, and nice kids besides.
And Aunt Theresa, herself, was vibrant, adorable, and a very helpful friend to many people. So her death means she is just over. But I can't see that. We all think of her and refer to her all the time, and will always continue to do so. So everyone is crying when they say goodby. Why? Because they are going to miss seeing her in the flesh, when she is full of aches and confusion?

Of course, all I could think of is my mom, and how this birthday is most probably her last, and Mother's Day was probably her last. And I won't have a mother next mother's day. But she is so tired and uncomfortable, and bringing such confusion and pain to my dad. And every time I see her invaded and assaulted form, I want to cry because I remember that she was so beautiful. She was not so great on giving advice and stepping up to bring aid to those in need, but she did the best job she could of being the daughter and the sister and the wife and the mother, and the grandmother. And when she is gone, I will blubber like a baby, even though I know it is time for her to rest and have peace and quiet and not have to worry about going to the bathroom anymore.

I am totally comfortable now with the idea that we have to let her go. Two years ago that was what she wanted, and maybe we should not have put her through the last few years. And I admit it was totally selfish. But still I cannot imagine going over to their place and her not being there. And I feel bad that when I tell her stuff she has to do, and how it has to be, she is a little pissed off at me, and looks at me like she knows she just has to take it. And isn't it a fine how do you do that now she can't throw a lamp at me if I mouth off or defy her. And it is me sending her to her room.

I am really mixed up but I don't have to stop and try to figure it out, something which I always did ad nauseum. I am finally able to just do it and move forward. So many times in my life I should have done that for such a lot of really stupid occasions, and, now I can, and, man, this is making me so sad.

my finest hour

Moral Crisis

I recently had a bad experience with a car dealer. It is pitiful that at my age I do expect people to behave honestly and morally, especially when I have contracts with them involving large sums of money. I have already in my life been gulled and cheated, hornswoggled and lied to enough times that you would think it would sink in. But it hasn't and it won't.

Like the time the bricks began to fall of the front of my house and I gave a local contractor huge sums of money to fix it. He messed it up real bad, using the wrong color mortar among other things. I refused to give him the other half of his money until he fixed it. He said he would send someone out to fix it. I said, "Okay, as long as they don't show up with a volkswagen and a shovel." Guess what...the volkswagen was blue. And a few days later, to add the insult to the injury, one of the sub contractors came by and threatened my life.

So this car dealer just lied to me and lied to the regional office, and I am just about at the point where I am tired of pursuing the issue. Which is probably what they intend to happen. But I am always so dismayed when this happens. And now, being so much older, I do not mourn for the lack of morality in my personal dealings, but worry so about what the world will be like for the future. What will the truth even seem to be when my four year old grandson is an adult? If he learns what the truth is, what good will it do him to pursue it?

And all these people that talk about looking to the Lord for guidance and the right answers, and they turn around and lie to me out of the other side of their mouth. What is the moral benchmark nowadays? Where is our touchstone? Do we have to make it up as we go along as so many of the younger generation seem to be doing? What is a crook? What is a lie? What is a moral guideline? When our children learn from their own parents to be irresponsible and unaccountable, what will they have in their conscience to guide their children?

People guilty of the most miserable of moral transgression walk around garnering respect among us every day. And people that did nothing are called on the carpet by liars with positions of trust and made to pay in ways they can not afford, morally, physically, financially. It is all so bogus, such a house of cards.

This crap about Iran and Iraq and the oil. A letter was going around on the internet saying what we would do when we pulled out of Iraq and stopped selling our Alaska oil to the Japanese. It was supposed to be sarcastic and a sort of ironic parody. But it was so grounded in how illogical it is that the obvious and most practical solutions to these huge problems are considered ridiculous, and that is all because of politics and political lobbyists. Which, if you have not noticed, is my answer for every problem you can think of.

I always thought that I was wrong in not pursuing my goals of being a diagnostic social worker in the school system or a respected writer But I guess I should have been a political lobbyist. But then I wouldn't be writing this, would I?

Old News

I realize, upon reviewing my blog, that I have not even touched on stuff that was so important it was making me crazy. I guess simply writing it down helps me resolve stuff.

Billy is still continuing at Bradley cousnseling and he has had an appointment and blood tests and stuff with Dr. Sarma at Rosalind Franklin University. He has diagnosed Billy with ADHD. I suppose that, as it was with Lisa, the symptoms do not show unless he is stressed in one way or another. I don't see it, but it is fine with me since it will give him extra services at school. I tried him on Concerta last fall with no apparent effect, but whatever. I am so glad that Lisa is carrying the ball on this one. I was talking to her on the phone two nights ago and, in the background, he was sobbing like a one year old. As soon as he realized his mom was talking to me it stopped just like turning off a radio. It is amazing the way he can produce the tears on demand and even make him self vomit from it. I sometimes get a bit scared when watching Law and Order and they start talking about behavior disordered kids. But, what do I know?

The last we heard about Bill's dad, the case was still being continued and he had not been sentenced. Bob's mom said, "His life is in that woman's hands." I don't think they have a very good understanding of the nature of his crime. Since Billy and Lisa moved out, we don't speak to them much.

Lisa has a nice little house about four miles from here. Her boyfriend is there almost always, so the twins are hardly ever there. Nor do they ask to be. They will not be there when Jody is there. He must think he died and went to heaven. He has no income and she drives him everywhere and is feeding him with the food stamps that should be buying food for the twins. Whatever. It is nothing short of a miracle that she got this housing when she did. We were unaware that she was on this list which is called Low Rent Housing. I think our town has to have a certain number of units for government reasons and the town probably has few candidates. It was a bolt from the blue at exactly the right time. I was SO worried about feeling guilty for putting them out, but I feel so much relief, the relief is the only thing I feel guilty about. And, not very much...

Cassie has been nagging me about getting Baptized and I promised her I would call the church about it. I have been putting this off for a long time. So yesterday I told her that I actually headed toward the phone to make the call and something distracted me. But I was getting closer to actually doing it. So today I actually took the phone and the phonebook and sat down to have the conversation, and, lo and behold, the church is not listed. Why would that be? It has been a long time since the handyman was murdered there, so why would they be secretive about their number? I hope it is not a sign from above about taking this step. Kind of weird.

Fran was on dean's list last semester and is doing well this semester. The Steven thing goes back and forth. Should she make a decision when she feels like she cannot make a diecision? Meanwhile, school is getting a little old for her. This is her second year. The first one went so fast. I hope she is able to continue, but it will get so complicated next year with clinical practice and Ben. For some reason, probably cuz I know she can handle it, this is not a source of worry for me.

My career in laying tile is moving slowly along. I am getting less messy about it, but not actually "better". I need a deadline. We have two new doors installed and that project needs a little financial boost. No furniture in the living room since I gave my couches to Lisa when she moved out. Little bit of a problem with Louie on that subject. Will probably need psychiatric intervention to get passed it.

So Spring is on the way and my folks seem to be doing very well. My tulips and daffodils are showing already. I am interested in seeing the results of Lindenhurst's big daffodil anniversary project. I certainly did my part. Every time I feel this hopeful and good, some horrible disaster pops up. I cannot help but have a tiny apprehensive feeling. Sunshine helps that.

Truth in Small Doses

So far 2006 has been a real scream. I spent a long time in Florida. I came home with a whole new perspective on irony, devotion, loyalty, love, duty and probably a bunch of other stuff.

In one respect, I have lost patience for so much stuff. I think it is just that I have broadened my personal definition of bull, and I just don't want to deal with it or the people that purvey it. Two little girls in Chicago have recently been killed by stray bullets. This is very very tragic of course. I cannot imagine the pain of losing a child at so early an age. Well, maybe I can. But, on the very page where a person is editorializing about the tragedy, (and, by the way, spending more time emphasizing the tragedy is actually the lack of gun control, and not the loss of the young lives...) in the adjoining column, is a story about three children that were killed in a house fire which involved too few smoke alarms and someone that was a cigarette smoker. Those two elements seem much easier to legislate about and control, personally or otherwise. The editorial did not touch on that at all.

Maybe my views on this are colored by the fact that my father was a police officer for many years, until he retired. But I just do not get why people think that laws are going to influence whether or not criminals will carry or use guns. Criminal::no respect for law. DUH...

Here are a few basic truths that I think I will have to write the Tribune about...

Almost any one reading this knows my references, so you know you HAVE to believe this is actual fact based on my colorful and long life experience:

Tailgating is WRONG unless you are having a picnic in a parking lot.

Hydrogen fuel makes more sense, scientifically and practically, than HYBRID cars. Send that money to a lobbyist.

Gun control will NEVER have any affect on criminals and their choice of weapons. Guess what? It is already illegal to CARRY an unregistered weapon. Hey, do ya think criminals are registering those guns?

Well, I truly do not know why it is so important to expound on these few subjects right now. But I think it has something to do with worrying about recurring cancers and beautiful lives coming to an ending place. Distorts my perspective I guess.

I am so glad to be back here.

An Attempt

This is Cassie and Ben. They are so beautiful.
I am going to try to copy a link here. It is for a commercial. BestCommercial.asf (2.6MB) I don't know if it is usable cuz I haven't paid too much attention to the rules for this place.

I had a really weepy day, and this commercial made me pretty much weepier. Fran sent me a photo of Ben that is just too cute. And it cheered me up to see it, but it, of course, also made me weep. I thought that part of my life would be over when I reached this age, considering PMS and all that goes with it is supposedly behind me. Anyway, I have to spend a few minutes real soon figuring out how to post photos(did it!)and I want to change the template so the ads are alongside instead of at the bottom. I know how to do that, but it is always so late when I get here, I have no energy left to concentrate.

Tomorrow I go to Bradley Counseling Center with Bill. I hope the weepies are over when I get there. I hope the counselor takes the lead as I will not know where to start. I suppose, if I have to, I can just start by saying the school wants the medical diagnosis. I will of course share the outcome as I will need to vent.

This whole Christmas thing is getting me down. I am still so in love with my tree that I sit and stare at it. Today I thought it was an interesting display of so many different takes on the face of Santa Claus. But the actual Christmas event, present wise, is going to be such a drag. The whole Billy thing is just affecting my outlook and moods way too much. He gets to go to Shop With a cop Thursday, and they let him, supervised by the cop, and with a list from home, spend $100 and the twins are too old to go. And today, his paternal grandparents sent him a $75 gift card from Wal-Mart. The twins dad sends them nothing. And we got them a great gift they will love, but we can't keep up with what Billy is getting. And the irony is that every Christmas in memory, he has said, "Is that all there is?" when the gifts were opened. He needs nothing, and appreciates nothing and I got him this huge RC truck cuz I got Ben one on the tenth which was Ben's fourth birthday, and I try to keep stuff fair. So, I just hope the twins don't feel like a couple of left out bums. I know they are older and should just be grateful and not selfish, but with a mom and a dad that get them nothing, I am pretty sure the inequalities will hurt. I do not look forward to the actual 25th of this month.

The card that came from Billy's grandparents said, "We don't know if we will see you before Christmas since your dad is away again." He was to go to court the Monday after Thanksgiving and I said to Bill Sr. Let us know what happens. And of course, we did not hear. And I decided not to ask what happened since they act so oddly about it. So I am guessing that the message in the card means he was sentenced, and I will have no clue about how long or what to say to Billy. So we will just let this hang and Billy will not wonder at all why he doesn't see his dad for the next few years. Okay.

More later on this jolly holiday season...

Obligation

It has been a while since I wrote here. My responsibilities to my public are beginning to overwhelm me. (facetiousness...)

Since I upped my Wellbutrin dose, it is a little more difficult to be creative, but in truth I am usually not very creative here, am I? And I find myself, on other forums, going on and on. So I will try to be a little more responsible about keeping my blog up to date.

We actually need to move Lisa to her own place. There is no question about whether she needs to live on her own. Her attitude toward this family is unacceptable, to say nothing of the physical and emotional toll she exacts. The question is whether it will be good for Bill, or not. And Bill has to go live with her. He adores her so. The way he acted out last summer, when she was not living here, was too bizarre. All we can do is make sure the social services are in place to help them out. Having talked to a psychiatrist, a psychologist, and two social workers about this, I will be able to live with my decision to let him go with her. And I am so looking forward to a little peace and order in my life. The New Year is so far offering many promises.

I am receiving feedback about my worship blog, and I hope it will lead to interesting discussion. The pastor of the bible based non-denominational church my grandkids have been attending has folded his tent and moved on. His adulterous relationship with one of the ladies of the congregation received a little too much publicity. I am so annoyed that this is another case where people stood up to tell others the right way to live your life, and even go so far as to compare my "Wrong" way to their "Right" way, when they are fully incapable of identifying their own sins. And it is not just the adultery. In the Catholic Church, if you bring scandal to the Church, or commit it in the Church's name, it is in itself a grievous sin. This guy having the respect and the ear of all these little kids really frosts me. One day it is, "Oh, I know Cliff, and he is a great guy." The next day, "What a complete jerk." Just one more reason why I so strongly feel that the deal between you and God has to be the deal you cut yourself.

So, dear Louie, the spouse with the computer operated heart and the frozen shoulder, just finished spending forty minutes in the garage looking for the tow chain. One of his pals got his pickup stuck in the mud the other day, and then the mud froze. I cautioned him about getting too involved with the helping in this project, but I better spend a few minutes going over the insurance policies again. Meanwhile, I fell sideways over the snowy frozen construction project that is my front stoop.

I have been thinking for three years about putting up a larger Christmas tree cuz we have that huge peaked space in the parlor. So this year I did it. It is nine feet and turned out so well. I have not devoted so much energy and concentration on a project in a long time. I feel so pleased with the success of it, I sit at dinner and gape at it. I have to figure out how to put photos on here. Can't be too hard. Anyway, I wish I could rustle up that enthusiasm for my tile project, but I have made a little progress, and the last batch went very well. But the blocks of time still pose a problem. Yesterday was supposed to be empty and I was all fired up to tile but one phone call led to another and then an orthodontic emergency developed and the day was shot. Moving the boxes of tile around is the worst part. Fran said there is too much junk in this house. Yes.

Okay, not too much going on and no amusing anecdotes, just trying here to get back into the blogging. Let me hear from you.

The Birds

A student of my husband's who was from a distant country, gave him a pair of canaries. The student's mom had sent them so he would not be too lonely. For some reason, they were to remind him of home. Perhaps he was from a home that had canaries in residence. The young man had to move on to another city and another school and knew my husband had twin grandaughters, so he asked Louie if he would like to take the birds. Of course, my husband said yes.

This was a pair of darling canaries. The twins were not too interested in them, but I was crazy about them. The male had a weird little crest of dark feathers that sat a little crookedly on his head. It actually looked like his toupee had slipped forward into his eyes. He sang his head off, but he did not last long.

One morning, there he was, croaked, in the water dish. I was shocked and saddened. Of course everyone thought I was overreacting. But this guy was charming. I put his body in a ziploc bag for later burial and put it in the freezer. I began to research replacing him. This is why my only google entry is some Illinois Canary afficianado club.

I soon found out that this bird was a crested Gloucester, and he cost over a hundred dollars. The gentleman I spoke with said he probably died cuz I left him with the female all the time and the female tends to harass the male to death. They should only be together to breed. He recommended not replacing him which was sort of a relief. I told the breeder that losing the canary made me sad, but when I found out how expensive he was I was even more sad.

The female was in a cage near my chair in the dining room and we became good friends. She was very demanding and insisted I chirp and cluck at her rather ridiculously when ever I sat down near her. Of course, I enjoyed this because she responded in kind. She also began to sing which is unusual for a female. She laid eggs furiously, and after about a year and a half she began to fail. I knew she was going and held her and petted her. No, seriously, I loved this bird. Well, when she passed, I put her in the freezer in a ziploc bag for later burial.

My relatives were freaked out by the birds in the freezer, but I kinda liked seeing their pretty yellow feathers and remembering them. But, mostly, they were usually forgotten behind the broccoli and the chicken breasts. Then we ordered the new fridge.

I cleaned out the old fridge the morning the new one was to be delivered. As each shelf and crisper was emptied and disposed of, I began to think of what to do with the bird bodies. It was a warm spring day, so I asked Louie to bury them out by the creek. I would have done it myself, but I was really busy, and wanted to avoid getting that little choky feeling I knew I would get if I buried them myself. So Louie agreed to take them out and inter them. I asked him to remember what nifty little guys they were and to think something respectful as he buried them. He agreed and walked out the back door and across the deck. I was standing at the kitchen sink and as he passed by the window and went down the stairs he said, "Here, kitty, kitty."

Worship

I need to research this matter a little, but, I think, somewhere in the New Testament, it says something about Jesus not liking self-righteousness, especially if it was because of him. I always took that to mean that He doesn't want people to think they are hot stuff just because they bought His program. Like He teaches humility and doesn't like pride, right?

But it seems that whenever I meet people who are into that new Christian-right modern religion thing that is growing everywhere by leaps and bounds, they think they are the only ones who know the secrets or truth. I was at a little holiday celebration with a bunch of them last year. It was supposed to be a get together where we shared stories of our own families' Christmas traditions. But, as the evening went on, and we played these little sharing games and read scripture, and heard a little homily, I started to think it was a kind of intervention since I was the only one still Catholic and not attending one of these brand spanking new Evangelical churches. So at the end of the evening we were supposed to write down what we thought of the evening and what we got out of it and I presented my little note as a diatribe on how I was already in Jesus and God's family, and had always felt that way and totally did not get the personal relationship with Jesus thing. I also felt I had to mention that what they said about Jesus saying, " I am the way the truth and the Life," was actually Him saying, "I am the Way the Truth and the Light." Huge difference to me at least. So they pretty much leave me alone now.

But my one immediate neighbor cannot resist a little expounding on the love of God whenever the situation arises. We have this little tacit war about who has the best perennials, and I think I win this year. I could have told her those Gerbera daisies punk out after the big show with the initial gorgeous, SINGLE bloom. But, whatever... So, she has these little meetings where all the gals from the church come over to pray and talk about God and stuff. And last week she had two on two days in a row. This is cuz her husband is training to be a pastor, and she therefore, is in training to be a pastor's wife, I am at least assuming. So I think that is swell and won't have sour grapes about her popularity, even tho I am a singularly unfriendly type of person. And the only thing that really bothers me about it, besides the fact that her daughters are champs at bitchiness, is how difficult it is to get out of my driveway when all her guests are parked up and down both sides of our narrow little rural street.

So, I was putting in a few more petunia plants, and planting a row of Barberry bushes, and it was kind of hot and I was getting really dirty, but things were going really well. I was certainly on a roll, and patting myself on the back, figuratively of course, as my partially roboticized body doesn't move around the gardening melieu very well and certainly does not allow for any back patting manuevers. And as I was perking merrily along, I was noticing the large number of cars in the street in front of my home, and I was listening to the ladies of the church, on my neighbor's screen porch, just over my shoulder, spiritedly discussing transformation and other stuff of a religious nature. And for just a moment I thought to myself that perhaps I was remiss in not joining in such types of soul betterment and was not doing right cuz I was not attempting to learn more about the Lord and how to get to be with Him. But I realized that what I was doing was a great form of worship and doing it and realizing what it was worth seems to prove to me that God and I are still on friendly terms.