YIKES

I just read the most depressing blog I have ever seen.  It was called Kuwait is the New Black, and the guy that wrote it--wow.   I have read blogs where the child is ill and then they post the announcement about the funeral service, and you're crying, or the mom was sick and passed.  And, shit, when you read this guy's blog, please DON'T, I don't want him to have the traffic, you will think anyone who passed from this life, sorrow for those they left behind, but no one wants to share the planet with this dude.  Ugly soul, taking up space.  Why?   Why is life so unfuckingfair so often? 

Isaac Asimov (I think it was him) or Arthur C. Clark,  maybe, wrote this story about how God ran out of souls cuz there was a finite number and He didn't count on people hanging around so long, so people were starting to be born without a soul.  Y'know, when He started the human project, life expectancy was 33 years.  And, to quote myself, who better than God knows how imperfect someone can be. So maybe this dude, I know he is not living in MY country, and the title makes me suspect stuff, but I didn't explore too much, but maybe this dude was hiding behind the barn when the souls were being handed out.  Or maybe God ran out. 

Anyway, I shouldn't even be venting about this, but I am kinda wound up and was before I saw his fucking hideous blog. 

We went to see Super 8 tonight.   I thought it was great.  Tons of subtext.

(Now that I think of it, someone was published that wrote about a woman with no soul and how she was the only one who got the goods on the vampire.  No, I didn't read it, and won't.)

STATS

I admit I am a little obsessed with my stats.  I probably don't need to explain that it is an ego thing.  I have been feeling kind of bad lately that I am within a few minutes of launching my book and my stats have been in the gutter.  And I have had some editing problems, like the mysterious dotted lines that when you try to get rid of them, they reproduce like bacteria.  I am actually kind of afraid to open the MS cuz once I did and it had a bunch of red paragraphs, and I always look at that stuff like a sign from God. Although He has already mentioned that He likes the book and is glad I spelled His name right, and, no, He will not sue for royalties, I am free to quote Him as I see fit.  And I am so thrilled with my cover art.  I get scared that I am fooling myself about this whole thing, but then I have to reassure myself that I have good instincts and have always had to chastise myself when I let someone talk me out of following them.  So I am going to give it a go anyway.  Yeah, don't hold your breath just now.  Or sneeze.

But today?  The google stat thing is unreliable.  I have read about how they have all these different sources and it can be confusing, and last month was not too great.  And I am kind of ticked about fucking FaceBook.  It is like nobody pays any attention to me on it.  I kind of wish they had a FaceBook hissy page. But my blog stats said I had seventeen hits yesterday, and I think that is one of my all time highs.  I wonder why they don't comment.  I comment on all kinds of blogs.  Who cares if they have no clue who I am. 

And there was no particular reason for it which makes it feel better.  I have been feeling bad that I have not been connecting with some of my favorites that usually provide good return, but apparently some of them remember me anyway.  So, I am ready.  Just need to work on some chapter numbers, and I have kind of a weird idea about titles, and, lately I have been saying about stuff like Louie driving after his first vicodin hit, it is in the hands of God, so I am not going to worry about the red paragraphs, and God is actually kind of excited about His little chapter in the book.  He wants people to sit up and notice Him too.

And, no, No, NO, it is NOT a Christian book.  It is kind of what you might have to call "Adult".

Ambiguosity

Talk about mixed feelings. . . 

I just picked up a bottle with 270 xanax in it at the pharmacy.

The Need for Sarcasm

I feel wrung out.  This has been too crowded a week and it's only Wednesday.  I am pretty good at coping, but this week I wanted to throw in that towel so many times and just say, "Fuck it."  And lots of the stuff I had to deal with turned out really well.  Well, there was that one customer service wait with the staticky Muzak.  But I think the thing that is missing is the bouts of laughter that bring tears to my eyes.  Apparently the tears have to go out anyway, (damn that Amygdala) so they were brought on by trips through the bank drive up instead of the strange and funny things that usually happen that we make stranger and funnier. 

My daughter has a friend staying with her, and I guess that is making me a little lonely.  But it would sure be nice if there was someone else in my life that I could converse with until we were laughing so hard we couldn't breathe. But the subject of friendship has been permanently shelved as far as I am concerned.  And the books I am reading are kind of formulaic, predictable, and dark.  My choices.  Not good ones.  Then last night I am proofing and editing the "Big Deal" and the sad parts were making cry, again, and the technical  mistakes I was finding were way too common.  I couldn't believe it after all this time.  And then one of those stupid dotted lines showed up. That just about drove me off the edge.  At least nothing turned red.  The sooner I launch that boat, the better.  If it sinks, oh well, I tried.  And tried.  And tried. 

I know all these feelings are aspects of my personality that I have had to deal with all my life, and part of it is my choices and part of it, as an actual physician said to me very recently, is my "neuro-biology".  I wonder if it could be  the weather that is making it all so much harder to deal with.  I am so used to being the way I am that I actually like me and prefer being this way.  I think the "devil may care" attitude toward life has to be an elaborate costume drama for anyone trying to live it.  No.  I KNOW that.  It just gets to me every now and then and I can be in the line in WalMart and feeling a little creeped out  cuz everyone looks ugly and scary and I can be in the line in WalMart and chatting with strangers and smiling at babies that smiled at me first.  And I know it is me.  Not the people in the line at WalMart.   For God's sake.  For one who feels and enjoys being as insular as I am, man, I sure let the outside world get to me way too much.

I am incapable of any sarcastic rejoinders, my stock in trade, my stress release mechanism of choice. Oh, well.  It will come back to me.  It always does.  Right? 

WISDOM

So many people in this world are unsung geniuses, artists, philosophers--so filled to overflowing with wisdom that will never be shared with the rest of the world.  We should all do what we can to ensure the legacies of such richly endowed humans endure.

Friendship

My younger daughter has many friends.  My older daughter has friends that have been her friends for many, many years.  My younger daughter had a break with a friend that was very serious.  The person felt betrayed and came back and said, "Well, I am still mad about it, but I have to put it behind me cuz I still want to be your friend."  I would say she and her friends love each other.  I wonder where they learned to have friends and be a friend.  Not from me.

I had a friend for many years.  One.  I have many casual acquaintances and waaaay too many relatives, and I am the kind of person that ends up giving the person in line at KMart a hug when we finally say good bye after our eleven minute life changing conversation.  I am also the kind of person that the Mexican handy man on the estate where I worked offered to marry one day when I was complaining about my spouse.  And I have always been able to make friends with people that I work with.  They have attempted to keep those friendships, and "friendships" going when we no longer worked together and seeing one another became less convenient.  But it was always me that dropped the ball, or let the air out of it. 

The one friendship that persisted did so not because of my efforts.  I am phone phobic and I love to read, and would never  bother to call someone just to catch up or make a date.  I just don't want to.  Part of it is time related, part of it, the biggest part of it, is definitely psychological.  But the friend persisted in keeping in touch.  Now we have parted.  She has denied saying things that I have in print (electronically) and she has accused my husband and me of doing things we did not do.  (Also backed up with the printed words she twisted) She claimed that some years back she decided to steer away from certain topics cuz she thought I was going a little wacko.  Well, shit fire.  Everyone knows I am a little wacko.  And the stuff that I have heard from her over the years indicating she is not going a little wacko but has crossed the line into the land of the strangely unbalanced, well, why even bother?   Today I received a letter from her that is so far beyond the pale (whatever the fuck that means) that my mind is spinning and burning and I am venting on this blog to keep myself from taking her letter and annotating each and every bizarre accusation she makes.   I am asking myself, and everyone around me, and they are getting damn sick of it, why did I ever bother?  What did I ever get out of it?  I would get so nervous about meeting her for lunch, I would have to take a Lunesta (maybe two) the night before or else I would toss and turn in a frenzy of anxiety.

I have rewritten my life in fictional works, three or four times.  I cannot actually rewrite my life, and when I consider the bad things that happened, the terrible tragedies that I wish I did not have to live through, the difficulties and mental obstacles and horrible decisions I have had to make, honestly, I look back and think that is just the way it was.  That is why I am here now and things are this way.  And I honestly don't think I would change it.  Well, maybe I would have married that med student, but I think he had a drinking problem.

But this friendship thing?  I twice have moved from towns and left no forwarding address because I did not want some one who wanted to be my fucking friend ( and I don't literally mean fucking. That's a whole other issue. And a way easier one to deal with.) to find me.  And, honest to God, one of them tracked me down.  What is wrong with me, except that my DNA proves my ancestors are from another galaxy, that makes me think friendship is such a HUGE pain in the ass?  I invite your input.  You may feel free to post anonymously and thereby relieve me from having to do anything, besides accepting gratefully,  that might be construed as friendly. But I am courteous, trustworthy, appreciative, kind, generous, unselfish, highly accountable, extremely responsible, fun, witty, (acerbically), literate, intelligent, attractive in an aging sort of way, just unfuckingfriendly. And that wacko thing.

The World's Most Amazing Baseball Game

In the league my grandson plays in, you have to lose two games to be out of the playoffs.  Ben's team, the Phillies, lost to the Cardinals, who are a pretty sucky team.  Ben's team was leader going into the playoff's 16 wins two losses.  Cardinals had two wins.  They beat us in the playoff game and the kids were so downtrodden.  It was awful.  And one of the coaches, who just happens to be a beautiful policeman who, when he shows up in his uniform, distracts me from the game, says to one of the kids, who was commenting on the Cardinals poor sportsmanship in light of their win, "Let them have their moment, they've only won three and you've only lost three." And a Cardinal mom yells, "Yeah, but we beat you."  So another coach gets in her face and politely tells her to shut the fuck up, but not in those words, only with that intent.  So the next day we kick Cardinal ass.  Of course.  So we play the Giants who are no losses in the playoffs and kick their butts  big time, like 17 to two, the Giants first play off loss.  So we have to play them again today. This league plays six innings.  We go into the bottom of the sixth down by six and win.  When it was tied Ben scored the tie breaker run.  OMG.  Then we went over and ate Bubbas and drank MGD and swam in their beautiful pool.  What a wonderful day.

Irony of all ironies, ironically

I bragged about how nice my house looked recently in the very same blog where I spoke extensively on the pruning of a rather unattractive tree on my property.  What is that line about from your lips to God's ears?  C'mon, God.  I actually backed down in the very blog and capitalized your name.  Seriously.  Talk about overkill.

View of the Zoo

We went to the drive in theater in Kenosha.  The screen looked like it would fall down in a strong wind, but it survived a very strong wind last week, the evidence from which was piled in almost every driveway and all along the surrounding roads.  Golly gee. They had to search our car because twice that week, people had tried to sneak in.  The revenue loss was sixteen dollars and we had spent the afternoon packing the car with odds and ends from Valley, so it really was not worth his time.

Ben wanted to see the Zookeeper movie, with Kevin James who is adorable.  I believe that to be the actual title of the movie.  Part of the time Ben and Cassie sat on the roof.  Then they sat in the car and there was not a breath of air, so we had to turn on the car and the air conditioning.

90% of the people we saw there were the same shape.  The women wore maybe size twelve pants, maybe 14, maybe ten and size 44 tops.  I wondered aloud if the clothing stores in Kenosha catered to that specific type of blouse.  I am being mean and petty, but really, what are the odds?  And Ben was being a little loud and colorful previous to the start of the movie and the very nice looking woman with tops and bottoms that looked like God didn't make a mistake, and her very nicely comported young men, one of which, to my chagrin, was a darling redhead, actually moved her car away and was heard explaining to her sons that she did not want to spend the entire movie parked next to those rowdies (us).  Actually the loudest noise we made was me pounding the steering wheel with tears running down my face with laughter, and, at this moment, I do not recall if it was something in the movie or something from my carfull that was making me laugh.  I was laughing so hard on the way up, wondering where this road we didn't belong on was going to take us, oh, lo and behold, it is the street we are supposed to be on, through luck alone, that I was afraid I would run off the road.  We laugh so hard and we just go on with this schtick about ending up on the Amstutz on the fourth of July and what was going to pop up from that huge cavern in the neutral ground.  I don't know.  It is what keeps me going.  This has been the craziest week, with house guests that I think were here and someone breaking into Fran's Valley House, that she is trying to vacate, and the new person, that we do not know where the time went, and the movie was funny, hysterically, in some parts, and stupid in others, but we laughed for what ever reason and we found our way home, and the tiny baby slept like an angel.  I have heard babies will do that when they are over stimulated, just zonk out, when the car is full of warm, crazy people that think they are funnier than the movie, and really are. And, oh I spilled something, oh, it smells good, oh, it's carpet cleaner, and stop spitting those Mike and Ikes out the window.  I complain, and I whine, and I am miserable and unhappy and bitter and short tempered, and insincere and more than a little crazy.  But I have such fun with these goofy guys.  I would not want to be with anyone else.  I am sure.

You wouldn't either. 

Conspiracy Theory

Mel Gibson was right in that movie where he was trying to convince Julia Roberts.  I must watch it again as I do not recall what he felt he discovered and why no one would believe him.  I actually do not recall the name of the movie.  And then there was that phrase, "Just because you are paranoid does not mean you are not being followed."

I am paranoid.  Someone said it about me and I took humbrage.  But I am.  I read some little phrase here or  there and I will think, "Stolen".  Like no one else read that same article or had that same  thought.  And then I think, "It is a plot.  They are conspiring with each other to do it."  Seriously.  Like why would they bother?  I am unimportant.  Perhaps believing these things or suspecting these things validates my importance or my mistaken sense of importance to myself.

And I am doing that thing, analyzing and second guessing when I have that book laying there that I am really enjoying reading, so why don't I?  And those bottles and bottles of helpful little pills.  And people make me so nervous.  Five in the room and I cannot stand the smells or the noise or the movement.  And  I just sit there, trying to cope with my feelings and my distress and I want to scream or sob or disappear, and  a few years ago I would have screamed or wept or run out of the room, but now I try to cope.  And I know I am not coping. I am pretending.  My words are fake.  My voice is false.  Copy me.  I laugh at you.

Why do some days I feel capable and interested and engaged and other days I see everything in horrid shades of green and I am scared and I know, I just know, it will never  be all right. (?)

Five Feet of Heaven in a Ponytail

I made a comment on someone's blog about love and how I felt like only I could love me.  And the person felt sorry for me.  And that is the second time I have done that.  I am kinda bummed.  I don't feel sorry for me, and I don't really feel comfortable making people feel that way.  I feel I am brave and enterprising and stalwart.  (We won't get into foolish or impetuous or wrong headed or whatever in this blog.  At least not today.)  I guess it is my perspective or my use of the word, or, perhaps, my own perception.

Recently I parted ways with a friend I have known for most of my life.  I had always said that she was a better friend to me than I was to her.  But, kind of like a light bulb went on in my head, suddenly (she said and did  stuff I totally could not fucking believe, and still can't) I felt like I was not the person she thought I was, and she was a friend to someone that was a stranger to me and I could not relate to it any longer. It is a huge watershed in my life, and weeks later, I refer to it and dream and obsess  about it.

In the car,  the other day, my daughter was 'lecturing' me on some thing I was allowing with my grandchildren, one of which (whom, who?)  lives in my home.  And I said, 'Well, I know I am an 'enabler', etc.", and brought up the old saw about where do you draw the line between caring and enabling, which is maybe not such an "old" saw, but has always been a good back up retort for me when I am being used as a doormat. and I said, "How bout we wait til this comes back to bite me in the ass, cuz I already did it and I know I shouldn't have and I really don't want to hear anymore about it right now."  And she said, "Okay."  And we just went on. 

Yesterday, when I was holding her baby, (the cutest thing you ever saw, no REALLLY) and I said, "She looks a little thrushy."  And Fran said, "No.  It's just milk."  And I said, "Okay." And we just moved on.

I have never had a relationship in all my many too many years, except for this one with one of my children, and sometimes that is a little shaky,  where things could be said like that and boing just move along with your life instead of analyzing the living breathing shit out of why it was said, and where did that person get that idea, and how should you react, and, Christ, increase my xanax scrip and give me an extra hour on the couch this week.  And, maybe I put too fine a point on it, but I think, if you love someone, or have love for someone, totally, it just has to be like that.   And you don't have to work at making it be like that, it just fucking IS.  And the respect and the admiration and the getting completely pissed off cannot be dealt with separately or analyzed or corrected.  The person has to know who the fuck you are.  Maybe I idealize myself, or feel I am more complicated than I appear to others, but I have been married to someone for over forty years who has no idea who I am or what I am about.  And he shouldn't have to think about it or define me to himself, he should just fucking know it or be aware of it.  I know if someone handed him a copy of one of my books and he read it, (and he wouldn't be bothered to read it unless it was titled  "Getting Down with the Kinghts Templar"  or "Sex and Seamanship") he would have no clue who wrote it, nor would he ever give it a thought.  He would just kind of mentally go, "Uh, huh."  and pick up the remote.

And I totally get that this is all about choices.  And that makes no nevermind here.

What Are You Going To Do?

This has happened at least six times in the last few months. 

I understand there is a certain type of mind that is kind of like a blender, that stuff just keeps spinning around and if you lift the cover a little, something just sort of flies out and sticks, to the wall, to the table, to your face, to your notebook, to your COMPUTER SCREEN.  I kind of have that sort of mind.  And I know I will read stuff and think, "Oh, I wrote a poem like that when I was 29", and it haunts me for awhile that maybe I read that poem by someone else when I was sixteen and it was just whirling around in there and just happened to fly out at a particular time.

But.   When, TWO DAYS after I post a blog about something that happened that was totally serendipitous, and I introduce the article with a cut and paste definition, complete with all citations, of the history and the definition of the word, I come across a blog, using almost the identical words, only illustrating that a different set of their own personal circumstances seemed, in fact, serendipitous, I think the person should at least say, "I was scrolling blogs and came across this blog, by VIRGINIA LLORCA, and she was talking about serendipity and it made me think as follows. "

There is nothing that can be done about it.  But when I realize I got the idea somewhere, I ALWAYS  say I saw this in the paper or so and so was blogging about this.  I think that keeps stuff polite and in the sunshine and it creeps me out that the Supreme Court has to rule on intellectual property.  But, if a person doesn't feel that upright and good citizen, honorable writer, non Cassie Edwards -ish about the subject, well then let them lay in their beds at night thinking that I am pond scum and no one will ever know they lifted it from my sparkling works, or used my stunning example as a platform.  That's okay with me.  I lay in bed at night and think about what Maisie says to Barney when he is standing there in the kitchen in his blue plaid boxers kissing her and the toddlers are smearing cheerios all over the room.

And I didn't get that idea from some else's blog, but someone with a contract with a major publisher will probably have it on the shelf in six months. 

And, a little motherly advice:   don't all the people in the blogging world KNOW that the tagging process GROUPS blogs, and, sooner rather than later, people in the field you are planting,  or hoeing, or trampling, or reaping, are gonna see the crop?  Ah, well.  In pioneer days, settling the ole West, rustlers figured out how to alter cattle brands.  So, who is stupid?

SERENDIPITY

First  the boring part:


serendipity


1754 (but rare before 20c.), coined by Horace Walpole (1717-92) in a letter to Mann (dated Jan. 28); he said he formed it from the Persian fairy tale "The Three Princes of Serendip," whose heroes "were always making discoveries, by accidents and sagacity, of things they were not in quest of." The name is from Serendip, an old name for Ceylon (modern Sri Lanka), from Arabic Sarandib, from Skt. Simhaladvipa "Dwelling-Place-of-Lions Island." Serendipitous formed c.1950.

Online Etymology Dictionary, © 2010 Douglas Harper

Cite This Source
 
 
Now an equally or perhaps, more, boring tale:
 
Ben lost his iPod shuffle.  He got it for Christmas.  He is nine.  The parents were a little worried about the price, size, age of user ratio but decided this is how lessons are taught, and learned.  A few months later, he lost it.
 
The circumstances were cloudy and they hesitated to replace it too easily, and held off.  Searches were conducted, mine, perhaps, the most assiduous. 
 
Meanwhile, May, June, etc.  No new iPod.  No new searches.  Occasional references.  Grannie has a much used shuffle, old edition, and the tuner thing in the cord, which they now know was a bad idea, craps out.
 
New baby.  Lots of shopping, meal exchanges, money changing hands, favors earned and owed, Fran buys grannie a new iPod.  Me:  "Don't tell Ben."  Fran:  Don't tell Steven".
 
TWO days later, Steven calls Fran saying he turned in his credit card points and is getting two new shuffles and some Wii accessory.  Ben hears.  Knows he is getting one of them.  He served his time for a cloudy crime.  "Act surprised when Steven gives it to you."  "Two of them?  Damn, we coulda saved fifty bucks". 
 
Fast forward THREE  days, today, July 01, 2011:
 
Package arrives at door containing the two new free iPods.  Stephanie comes over with her three little girls.  Going through the toy boxes and tables in the playroom, Hannah finds Ben's long lost blue iPod. 
 
Not a big deal, I know, but shades of O'Henry and downright weirdness in this story somewhere. 
 
I don't think we ever even called on Saint Anthony in regard to this one.
 
 
 
 
 
 

Redundancy...but Too Darn Cute

Fran designed these herself which just makes it sweeter for me. . .

Baseball as Never Before

My nine year old grandson had his last little league game today.  Now All Star and Play offs.  They are 16 wins two losses for the season.  Since it was the last game, they wanted to let everyone pitch.  He never pitched in a game before.  He can fire the ball but tends to hold back a little.  He struck out the first two batters, three pitches each.  I over heard one of the coaches say, "Why did we use him as a relief pitcher?"  (They used him as designated runner a couple of times cuz he is FAST)  So then he walks a run home but then strikes out the third guy to retire the side and they win another.  I had tears in my eyes.  I am such a wuss about such stuff. And sweet little Delaney asleep in my arms the whole time.  How many times can I say, "Life is sweet"?  I think this is a first for me.

                                    BEN

FLUFF

For anyone wandering in here that doesn't know ME, that might have linked through that Real Estate Agent in New Zealand or that Bicylce Shop in Holland, or that strange Russian website that loves me--I write FLUFF.

I am tired of the strict definition of "Romance" that it must have "conflict" and the "Happy Ending" which is so standardized it is called the HEA.  Happy Ever After. 

I write FLUFF.  They fall in love, fall in  bed, fight about stupid things, have babies, have tragedies, have fun, get scared, care about stuff.  There is no category.  I have even, thinking perhaps facetiously, or "kidding on the square", sent out queries where I say this is FLUFF with no moral lessons, hidden truths, just entertainment.  You'll laugh.  You'll cry.  You'll pee a little.  WTF.  I NEED escapism, but I cannot get my mind around stuff that has no bearing at all on my life.  I have to be able to identify with these people otherwise I do not give a flying fuck about them.  I remember all the cute, funny, flattering, scary, sad, emotional, angry parts of my life.  I don't necessarily want flashbacks, but maybe a little revisionist history, just for fun.  I swear, I read about a person whose friend has a book on the store shelf and asks her what she thinks of it and she says now they don't speak cuz it was a bunch of disconnected scenarios and she couldn't think of anything good to say about it.  Well, don't get your expectations up here.  If you ever talked to me or listened to me, or heard about me, you know exactly what to expect, and if you never heard of me, you will know me as well as you know your sister or your wife or your husband or yourself when you read me.

Coming soon to a Kindle  near you.  Lots and lots of bang for your buck.

Brag, Brag, Brag

It's usually whine, whine, whine, but maybe it's the weather.  This morning I went out in front of my house and cut branches off a tree.  I enjoyed it a lot.  I will probably feel the results of it tomorrow, but I enjoyed it.  I used to get mad at Louie.  We'd be having people over for whatever and I'd be dusting bookcases and he'd go to the empty field next door and cut down branches, pruning artistically, trees that belonged to no one and were growing wild.  But now I understand.  It is messing around with a kind of huge natural force and it feels so good.  I had one limb that was about four inches thick and half way through it broke and I couldn't get a purchase on the little piece still holding it on the tree.  Elemental problem solved.  Feels so much better than worrying if this chapter break should be a three asterisk break or a four asterisk break. Then, apparently while I was out for lunch, which took six hours and was also fun, Louie did some more.  Well, he always did like it.  And maybe after the spinal surgery he won't be able to do it anymore.  So the stacks of branches in front of and behind the garage kinda look actually bigger than the tree.  This tree, I think it is some kind of ash, and it is not very attractive, but keeps the evening sun from raising the temp in the front bedrooms, so there is no question it must remain, is just kind of annoying, it's growth pattern and ugly bark and all, and while wrestling with it I had the passing thought:  Ash. Emerald Ash Borer.  Maybe the village would pay for its removal, but no.  I took it back, God.  Forget I said that.  It is very necessary to the cultural ambience of my actual residence.  Which brings me back to what started this train of thought that is now looping through abandoned mine tunnels in an unused portion of my brain.  It had to be trimmed because it was growing way over the driveway and Cassie and I park our cars at that end of the driveway and on that side, and there is always an embarrassing amount of bird shit on them.   Plus, when I come around the corner, and I've lived here almost twelve years, I always think, "My house looks so nice."  And lately when I come around the corner I think, "You can hardly see the house anymore for that damned tree."
So, practical and aesthetic reasons, and it was fun and when you come around the corner you will think, "That house looks really nice."  It does.

Quote of the Day, of a Lifetime Maybe. . .

If not now, then when?

If not me, then who?



From some dude on Ted.  Thank you.

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.